


Crown of Lies

by Vertiga



Category: Original Work, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: A weird hybrid of fanfic and original, Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Detective Flynt Coal, Fantasy, Mad King Ryan, Magic, Multi, Not your average Kings AU, Thieftaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renowned Thieftaker Flynt Coal can hear a lie like a scream in the dark. But in the court of Mad King Erryan, the truth is a dangerous thing.</p>
<p>Rebellion is stirring, the old king's name is being spoken again, and Flynt must follow a trail ten years cold to uncover the ringleaders. With Erryan watching his every move, Flynt will be forced to pick a side, and between two kings is a dangerous place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment, halfway between fanfic and original fantasy, set in a world of my own, and I've been sitting on it for a while. None of the names are people's real ones, but I'm sure RT fans will recognise the inspiration behind various characters anyway. It's novel length, though currently unfinished.  
>  **Please let me know what you think** \- I'm trying to decide whether or not to put the whole thing up here. If no one's interested I won't bother with it.

‘Do you know who killed her?’

The burly man took another swig of colonche and shook his head firmly. ‘No.’

Flynt felt an itch in the back of his brain, not for the first time in the conversation. Another day, another suspect too stupid not to lie to a man who could always, always tell.  
He leaned forward across the table, constantly aware of the bustle of the tavern around him. There were as many potential enemies as allies, for all that the locals had specifically asked for his help. In the heat of the moment, he wouldn’t count on fists swinging in the right direction.

‘Was it you?’ he asked, getting right down to the crux of the matter. This petty murder had taken up far too much of his time already.

‘Course it wasn’t,’ the man insisted.

There went the tell-tale itch again.

Flynt sighed. ‘I’m pretty sure it was. Do you want to confess now, or down at the guard house after they’ve kicked seven kinds of snot out of you?’

‘Wasn’t me that stabbed her,’ the man insisted. 

‘Funny thing, my friend,’ Flynt said idly, shifting his stance just a little to bring his dagger closer to hand. ‘I don’t think I ever said she was stabbed.’

There was a frozen moment, and Flynt could almost watch the slow gears turning in the brute’s head.

‘Everyone knows that,’ he hazarded, but the surety had gone from his voice.

Flynt shook his head very slowly, and opened his mouth to politely suggest that it might be time to stop playing games.

Then the man turned over the table.

Flynt leapt back, red cactus pear liquor splashing his clothes as the cups went flying.

Benches scraped back around him as people took notice.

‘Hold him!’ Flynt shouted out. ‘He killed Masie Logwood!’

There was a collective rumble of anger at that, but the man was already barrelling for the door, right at Flynt.

Setting his feet, Flynt took the blow as well as he could, but the man was twice his size. The breath went out of him, and it was all he could do to hang on to the killer’s shirt rather than falling. He managed to get a hand on his dagger and pull it free, but his chance to aim was gone. There was no quick killing blow, crushed against his foe as he was, nothing to do but stab and hope to slow the brute down.

The dagger broke skin with a familiar, loathsome release of pressure, sinking deep into the man’s side.

He heard the breath whoosh out of the man’s lungs in a sour-scented rush, then the back of his head smashed against the doorframe.

Blinded by stars, he let go of shirt and dagger both, falling beside the door as the man staggered on through it.

He heard shouting, faint and indistinct, as though the crowd was hailing him from afar. For a few heaving breaths, he couldn’t decide if the urge to vomit or pass out was stronger.

Slowly, his vision cleared and he came to his senses, taking in the suddenly deserted tavern. The back of his head felt hot and tight, and when he raised a shaky hand to his dark hair it came away wet with blood.

Groaning, he hauled himself up against the doorframe and lurched outside, following the sound of angry voices.

The former patrons of the tavern were gathered in a dead-end courtyard across the narrow lane, and when Flynt arrived they parted for him, revealing his foe at bay in the corner.  
The bone handle of Flynt’s dagger still protruded from his side, and the wet rasp of his breath spoke volumes to the damage it had done him.

The locals were furious, the horror of the murdered girl fresh in all their minds, but none of them had quite worked up the rage to close the gap and finish matters. Flynt was sure they would, given a little longer.

‘Have you finished playing?’ he asked, halting just in front of the snarling crowd. ‘Or shall I leave you to talk to your neighbours for a while? Mob justice is an ugly, ugly thing, my friend.’

‘And yours is better, thieftaker?’ the man rasped out.

‘Mine is cleaner,’ Flynt promised. ‘Also, a lot less dubious in the eyes of the law, but that’s really not going to be your problem.’

There was another pause as the man thought it out, fingers clenching and relaxing around the dagger handle as the creeping pain overrode the rush. Pulling it out would give him a weapon, perhaps allow him to fight through the crowd, but he apparently had wit enough to realise that the blade was all that was holding in his life.

‘You know I did it,’ he said at last.

‘I do,’ Flynt agreed. ‘But now these people know, too.’

There was a collective muttering from the crowd, and the unmistakable thick slap of people spitting on the courtyard stones at his feet.

Flynt saw the defeat in the man’s eyes and stepped forward. The ground wavered under him, but he kept his footing for the few steps it took to close the gap.

‘You killed Masie Logwood, didn’t you?’ he said, once more.

The man’s wet breaths were the only sound, the crowd hanging on his reply.

‘Yes.’

Flynt nodded. Swift and sure, he pulled his dagger from the man’s side and plunged it back in, angled up under his ribs. This time, his aim was true, and he felt the tremor of a failing heartbeat through the blade before he pulled it free.

The man dropped to his knees like a ragdoll, eyes wide with shock, and within a few wet breaths he fell forward and went still.

Flynt looked at the bloody corpse with a weary eye, then faced the crowd, aware of the world tilting alarmingly as he turned. His head ached unbearably, but he had to finish his work before he would allow himself to pass out again. Summoning the words from long-practised memory, he said calmly;

‘I, Flynt Coal, appointed thieftaker in the three kingdoms of Alcanar, Levantar and Fornale, have determined guilt for the murder of Masie Logwood and meted out justice in accordance with local law.’

There was a murmur from the crowd that might have been approval, tempered by the shock of violence. Most people had no idea how a man’s heart felt when it stopped beating against a dagger blade.

Flynt sighed, weary of his work and sick with the pounding pain in his head. 

‘So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get paid and go home now.’

 

~

 

It took very little time to get his fee from the family of the murdered girl, once the initial stupor had worn off and people had started moving again. Flynt was glad of their eagerness to pay the blood-stained executioner and get him away from their home, since his head was throbbing and he was fairly sure the blood on his clothes belonged to him as much as his quarry. His habitual black shirt and trousers hid the colour well, but there was a horrible familiarity to the way the silk clung wetly to his back.

He could only be grateful that the case had been within his home city for a change, since it took all of ten minutes to stagger back to a friendly house once he had his hard-earned opals in his pocket. 

He wove drunkenly through the narrow, timber-walled streets of Ciquade until he reached a small shop, its hanging sign brightly painted with bottles in red and blue and green.  
The creak of the door was familiar as a lover’s laugh, and despite the nausea, he felt a layer of calm settle over him when it swung shut at his back.

The shop was lit by oil lamps hung from the low roof, packed floor-to-ceiling with tiny drawers and shelves lined with squat clay and glass bottles. A sharp smell of green herbs lingered in the air, and from the doorway behind the long counter he could hear the furious bubbling of hot liquid.

The herbalist stepped out of the back room, wiping his hands carelessly on his much-stained white apron, though his clever fingers were already forever dyed with crushed flowers. Flynt smiled at the sight of him. Thin-framed and brown skinned, the dark scruff of an absent-minded beard on his chin, Rosyr was a welcome friendly face after a case that had taken far too long.

Rosyr’s mild expression darkened as soon as he saw Flynt swaying in the middle of the shop.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he warned. ‘I see you tilting, thieftaker. If you keel over and hit my shelves again, so help me Lares, I’ll let you lie there until you die of your own stupidity.’

Flynt grinned foolishly. He couldn’t muster much argument, having exhausted all his reserves of stubbornness to make it back to friendly ground. In deference to his scowling friend, he made sure to drop to his knees and crumple neatly in on himself when the dizziness overcame him. He didn’t so much as rattle the glass on the shelves as he passed out.

 

~

 

‘You’re not getting any lighter, you know,’ an irritable voice was saying when he swam back to consciousness. 

He could feel nimble fingers wrapping a bandage around his head, making his hair stick up even more outrageously than usual. The pain was dull, numbed by the welcome arms of Rosyr’s best medicine, and he felt much steadier than before.

Between the pillows at his back and the mattress beneath, there was a soft cushion of milkweed floss cradling all his bones, and he was content to recline, only half awake, as Rosyr finished bandaging, complaining all the while about having to drag Flynt out to the back of the shop before he horrified any customers.

‘Proper, paying customers, that is,’ Rosyr added, putting a cup of water in Flynt’s hand and nudging him to drink it.

‘I can pay,’ Flynt protested fuzzily. ‘Got paid today, take all the opals you want.’

Rosyr smiled. ‘I know you can, but you also come and try to bleed out on my floor on a disturbingly regular basis, so it doesn’t balance out the same way.’

His logic didn’t seem quite right, but there wasn’t time for Flynt to work it out before he lost his train of thought. He vaguely understood that Rosyr had taken the empty cup away, but he fell asleep again almost immediately.

 

~

 

Morning sun was streaming through the window-lattice when he woke again, sticky-mouthed and stiff. The familiar smell of mingled herbs told him where he was before his eyes had even opened.

The little space was quiet, tucked away between Rosyr’s brewery and his impressive garden, set aside for Flynt’s recovery after one stupid exploit or another. Rosyr had cleared out a small storage room after complaining repeatedly about trying to get an injured man heavier than him up the narrow stairs, and it had been Flynt’s emergency bedroom ever since.

The door was open and Rosyr was faintly audible, talking calmly to someone in the shop. Flynt took stock of himself and decided that he felt immeasurably better, aside from the need to piss. His bloody shirt and trousers were gone, but his belt and boots were beside the bed, and Rosyr had left clean clothes with them – Flynt's own, judging by their cut and colour. Rosyr never wore black, and Flynt rarely wore anything else.

He got stiffly out of bed and pulled on the clothes, brushing briefly over the bandage as he tugged the shirt over his head. He scratched at the stubble growing in on his cheek and decided that he could go without a shave, since he had no plans for the day that would require him to look particularly tidy. There was a loose weight in one pocket of his trousers, and his seeking fingers found his door key and the small purse of opals he had earned for his most recent work, thoughtfully retrieved by Rosyr.

_Probably right before he burned my other clothes,_ Flynt thought, irritated at the idea of having lost yet another set.

He ambled through the brewery and out of the back door, foregoing the outdoor privy to piss directly into the nearest flowerbed. Rosyr said it made the plants grow, and Flynt knew better than to argue with someone about the subject of their magical flair. Flynt might know a lie from the truth the moment it was spoken, but Rosyr grew more powerful medicinal plants than anyone else in the city.

Relieved, he went back inside, pausing in the brewery to poke at the slowly dripping distillation of mint oil that was filling the room with fresh green scent. He ended up with oil on his fingertips, and scrubbed them guiltily on his trousers before he walked out into the shop.

The door creaked shut behind a customer as he emerged, and Rosyr finished wiping crushed cloves off a scale before he paid Flynt any mind.

‘Feel better?’ he asked, looking his friend up and down.

‘You always work miracles,’ Flynt said, genuine thanks and mocking flattery in one statement.

Rosyr rolled his eyes. ‘What happened this time?’

‘I worked out who murdered the girl on Summer’s Lane,’ Flynt replied. ‘He wasn’t cooperative.’

Rosyr hummed. ‘His blood on your dagger, I suppose?’

Flynt nodded. ‘I got him in the side just before he bounced my skull off the wall, then finished the job afterwards. He tried to run for it when he mentioned that the girl had been stabbed and I said no one knew that.’

‘I’m amazed how often that trick works for you,’ Rosyr said. ‘But you might be too fond of using it. Was it even true this time?’

‘Of course not. Everyone knew she was stabbed. Can’t keep a corpse with that many holes in her guts out of the local gossip for long, but all I needed was a breaking point. I was sick of the game,’ Flynt said, scratching at his healing head under the bandages. Rosyr’s work accelerated the healing process enormously, but never stopped it from itching.

Rosyr slapped his hand away none too gently. ‘Could have picked a less violent one, for a change,’ he suggested.

Flynt just laughed. ‘It’s like you don’t even know me. Should have drawn my dagger before I said it, that’s all.’

‘I’d say you’ve learned a lesson, but we both know you don’t learn,’ Rosyr teased. ‘All that thick skull’s good for is taking hits.’

‘It feels a lot better.’

Rosyr hummed again, satisfied with his own work. ‘Give it another day and another dose of medicine and you’ll be fine.’

‘You know, I might be more careful if my injuries had longer consequences,’ Flynt pointed out.

‘I doubt it,’ Rosyr said. ‘You’d just go back out slower and more vulnerable because you wouldn’t wait until you’d healed.’ He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Do you really want me to let you heal at your natural pace?’

‘No, no,’ Flynt said, waving him away. ‘I’ll happily take the medicine, thanks.’

‘Thought so,’ Rosyr replied. He reached under the counter and retrieved a clay bottle that couldn’t have held more than a few mouthfuls of liquid.

‘Drink that sometime today, and leave the bandage until tomorrow,’ he instructed. ‘And don’t be an idiot in the meantime.’

Flynt took the bottle and squeezed Rosyr’s stained hand in thanks.

‘I found my opals, but where’d you put my dagger?’ he asked.

Rosyr reached under the counter again and handed over the blade with obvious distaste. 

The bone handle protruded from a black silk rag that Flynt suspected had previously been part of his missing shirt. It was stiff with dried blood, and when he unwrapped the blade red-brown flakes sloughed off the blueish steel. Flynt made a face at the state of it. Fine blue steel or not, dried blood was anathema to a good blade.

Rosyr was having none of his dismay. ‘I’ll get bloody clothes off before you stain the sheets, but cleaning guts off your blade is your problem.’

‘Sounds fair,’ Flynt conceded. ‘What do I owe you?’

Rosyr laughed. ‘So much more than gems could equal.’

‘Well, obviously, but I’m sure you wouldn’t say no to them anyway?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Rosyr agreed.

Flynt tipped the bag of opals into his palm, gleaming with shifting rainbows in the lamplight, and let Rosyr have his choice. He was sure that Rosyr’s care was worth more than the tiny, milky-hued stone he took, but the question of payment had long since been no more than a symbol between them.

‘Perhaps I can see you with all your blood on the inside, for a change?’ Rosyr suggested.

Flynt considered it. ‘I might be travelling for a while. I had word of a spate of high-value thefts in Parela that the merchants want my eye on.’

Rosyr looked less than happy. ‘My advice on not being an idiot stands, then,’ he said. ‘And if you get into trouble, go to Remy. There’s no one else on that side of the Gap I’d trust to deal with you.’

Flynt grinned. Rosyr wasn’t the only one with a flair for herbs, though the swamplands of Levantar lent themselves to slightly different brews. 

‘There’s no one else whose potions you so envy, more like.’

‘Be gone with you,’ Rosyr said, swatting his friend away. ‘I’ve had enough of sarcasm for today.’

Flynt bowed mockingly and left.

 

~

 

It was a short walk to the rickety rooming house that Flynt called home when he was in Ciquade. He spent little enough time there that he had often thought that he should just move into Rosyr’s spare room, but he was sure they would end up strangling each other if they didn’t have their own space. 

The narrow streets were alive with people coming and going to the nearby dyeworks, dodging around carts full of cloth bales and barrels of imported dye. Hawkers sold hot meat and corn to the passing workers, and Flynt paused to buy a yellow cob speckled with hot spice. 

The seller looked askance at the grey bandage around his head, but didn’t pass comment. Flynt could only imagine how unhinged he looked with the bandage disarraying his hair, since his short locks stood up in all directions at the best of times.

It was neither the wealthiest district nor the best smelling, but Flynt had been born a stone’s throw from the dyeworks, and after all his travels he was always drawn to return to the dark, close wooden houses and the Lar which had given him his truthseeking flair.

The front door of the rooming house was stiff, but it gave suddenly under his shoulder and he managed not to drop his corn in the process. His own room was on the second floor, and he could hear cane flute music drifting down from the floor above as he climbed the dimlit stair.

Juggling corn, medicine and his cloth-wrapped dagger, he unlocked the door to his own room. It was much like any modest lodging room, furnished with a bed, table and two chairs as well as a wardrobe and a washstand, but there were a few unusual touches that attested to his travels. 

Mounted on the wall was a fine plate of blue-enamelled clay which had been given to him in thanks for solving a serial murder in the northern mountains. A faintly glowing firebird feather stood in a glass vase on the table, souvenir of the months he had spent tracking jewel thieves in the burning desert of Fornale. And hanging on the back of the door, next to his black coat, was a thin green scarf with a single calpa tail hair woven through it. 

He caught sight of it as he closed the door and made a mental note to take it with him when he took ship to Levantar. If he had any cause to go into the deep swamps, it was always wise to carry that sign of favour to keep the more vicious water horses at bay.

He threw open the window shutter to let in more light, and ate his corn sitting on the wide sill, watching the street below. Few people looked up to see him, and it amused him to guess what each passer-by was doing. Little details of dress and manner were important to his trade, and he could tell at a glance which of the passing workers had drunk too much, which were angry or displeased by their day, and which were pairs of lovers, leaned close and clinging as they walked.

When he had finished eating, he worked the pump-handle by the washbasin, drawing rainwater down the pipe from the roof, and set to work cleaning his dagger. There was no use in putting it back in its oiled sheath with blood still rusting on the blade, and it had saved his life too often for him to be careless of it. A dagger might not hold the status of a full sword, but it was handier in close quarters, and twelve inches of prime Fornala steel commanded a high price even for a well-paid thieftaker. 

It was always a little eerie cleaning the blade after he had killed with it, knowing that the blood was the last trace of a life, but after more than six years of work he had lost count of the thieves and murderers who had met their end at his hand. All too often they fought him, or it simply wasn’t possible to hand them over to a guard house and a hangman’s noose, and he took comfort in the knowledge that with his flair to guide him, he had never killed an innocent.

With the blade clean and oiled to his satisfaction, he turned his attention to the bottle Rosyr had given him. The clay was stoppered with wax, and when he broke the seal a pungent waft of cloves made his nose wrinkle. Potion or powder or paste, Rosyr’s medicines worked without fail, but it would have been nice if the ones he had to drink tasted a little better.

He held his breath and drained the bottle in one, making a face at the taste of spiced dirt and cabbage that washed over his tongue.

He mentally cursed Rosyr’s awful concoctions, then smiled wryly, chiding himself for pettiness. It was far better to endure the taste than to wait days or weeks for his head to heal by itself. The summons to Parela had been urgently worded, and he meant to leave on the first boat downriver in the morning. With that in mind, he pulled open the wardrobe and began to pack.

 

~

 

It was just after sunrise and he was barely awake, stumbling into his clothes with his face still wet from shaving, when there was a pounding knock on his door.

He frowned, pausing in unwinding the bandage from his healed head. The striking hand had been sure and heavy, and most probably armoured, judging by the hollow echo of hard leather on each blow.

It wasn’t unheard of for the denizens of the nearby guard house to seek him out, but he had never had a summons from them at such an early hour. They were busiest at night, and the first few hours of the morning were generally the breathing space between the kinds of violent crime that hid in the dark and the market disputes and pickpocketing that went on in broad daylight. The latter crimes were usually childishly simple, and Flynt never had anything to do with them.

He opened the door to a huge, scowling bear, and his heart jumped into his throat. 

After a rapid blink and a second look, he understood that it was a heavy, well-muscled man wearing the pelt of a bear. The creature’s snarling head was set atop his own, its yellow fangs and dead eyes a perfect match for the hard scowl on his face. He wore thick leather armour on his chest and forearms, and leather gloves thickened and reinforced over the knuckles. 

Aside from the bear pelt, his garb was typical of the wandering warriors Flynt had met in Levantar, and he wondered for a moment if the man had been sent as escort by the merchants of Parela.

However, the massive double-head of an axe loomed over his left shoulder, shining even in the gloom of the corridor, and Flynt noticed that the blade was blue-steel, not the duller kind made from bog iron. A weapon of that size from the northern forges would have cost a fortune, and he quickly revised his estimation of his visitor. He couldn’t be a simple hired guard.

‘Yes?’ Flynt asked, feeling much more awake after his sudden shock.

The warrior stared impassively at him for a long, deeply uncomfortable moment, and Flynt began to wonder if he would ever speak.

‘You are summoned,’ the warrior said at last.

‘To Parela? I know. I’m about to leave.’

‘You will not leave. You are summoned.’

Flynt frowned. As disconcerting as the flat statement was, it didn’t tell him much.

‘Who summons me, then?’

‘The king requires your presence.’

An instant chill settled in Flynt’s gut. He wanted to be flippant and ask which king, but he knew. Only Erryan the Mad, King of Alcanar, whose palace cast a silent shadow over the city, would have sent such a menacing herald.

‘I’m leaving,’ Flynt repeated, without much conviction.

The warrior just stared at him, unmoving.

‘Right,’ Flynt said, when the silence had got downright unbearable. He turned back and picked up his belt, buckling it around his waist so that his dagger hung at his right hip. 

His eyes fell on his saddlebag, packed and ready for the journey across the sea, and he had the morbid thought that his preparations would make it quicker for the landlady to clear out his room if he didn’t come back.

The warrior just waited, then stepped aside so that Flynt would have to go first down the stairs. The stairwell had never felt so cramped as it did with the massive figure blocking out the light behind him, and Flynt’s spine crawled with every step.

It was better on the street, though his glowering escort drew many fearful looks from the morning crowd. Flynt tried his best to walk with his usual grace, rather than slinking like a guilty man, but it was hard not to feel condemned with the king’s summons on his head.

Every guard captain who had had cause to meet the king spoke of him with a bone-deep terror, more like a monster than a living man. The bloodshed surrounding his sudden ascension was well known, and there were always whispered tales of violence around him, though most of them might as well be ghost tales for all the real evidence there was to support them.

It was a long walk from the rather cramped district that Flynt called home to the castle on the hill, but they could see it almost as soon as they stepped outside. It was the only entirely stone-built structure in Ciquade, pale yellow stone from across the sea providing a stark contrast to the dark wood that made up almost everything else. Even the grand villas on the city’s outer fringe were partially built of wood. 

The boundary of the castle grounds was a high wall partway up the hill, surrounding gardens and orchards, stables and barracks, and at the centre of it all the castle proper loomed. The main keep dominated the crown of the hill, a single huge tower of pale stone that shone gold in the sunlight. The keep had been the seat of all power in Alcanar for centuries and Flynt assumed that it was their destination.

The warrior was silent at his side, apparently unburdened by his heavy axe even when they began to climb towards the castle. It was a cool day, spring just taking hold, but even so Flynt felt sweat beading in the small of his back and his breath catching uncomfortably in his chest. His work could be strenuous, and he knew his reaction was more from nerves than from the climb, but it certainly made the ascent less than comfortable. He was sure the impassive warrior was judging him as he struggled.

They were waved straight through the massive gate in the outer wall, the bear-skinned warrior apparently well known and respected enough to go unquestioned. The wall was at least twenty feet thick, with a second iron gate on the inner side. The arched corridor between was lined with murder holes stained black with old pitch, and Flynt shuddered to think of the panic that must grip an attacker who breached the outer gate only to find themselves trapped inside the wall with boiling death pouring down from above. He was old enough to remember the fighting that had raged when Erryan took the throne, and he was sure a good many people had died horribly between the two gates.

Inside the wall, the road levelled out a little as they neared the brow of the hill. Up close, the keep was massive, blocking out all sight of the sky ahead. It was a solid mass of pale stone, pierced only rarely by narrow, slitted windows. Flynt felt inescapably small in its shadow, and hated the feeling. They walked past the main barracks, eyed curiously by resting guards dressed in bits and pieces of their red livery, and finally passed through a smaller gate into the keep itself.

The first floor was a maze of rooms designed to confuse an enemy, a few of them with guards in full livery and armour standing at their doors, and though his guide seemed to have no trouble with the twisting, dimlit halls, by the time they reached a grand double doorway Flynt wasn’t entirely sure of the way out.

There were four guards standing alert and sharp eyed beside the door, but they made no move to stop Flynt. He had expected to have his dagger taken at some point, but no one had made any move to confiscate it. It was a show of strength, he was sure. Erryan was so certain that no one could threaten him in his own throne room that he did not care if his subjects were armed in his presence.

The warrior pushed the door open without ceremony, revealing a high-ceilinged hall, its carven stone walls lined with trailing banners the colour of old blood. At its far end was the throne, a single massive chair on a raised platform, and Flynt saw King Erryan lounging like a cat on the padded seat. 

There was a copper-haired woman standing at his left hand, armoured in red-stained leather, with several long knives at her waist. From across the hall, Flynt recognised the glow of firebird feathers laced into her armour and in her hair, and wondered at the strange choice of adornment.

Still, she couldn’t hold his attention for long, not with the infamous king in the room. As they walked forward, Flynt did his best to assess the man, wanting to know as much as he could about his summons. There was little enough to see. There had to have been something that had scared the sturdy captains of the city guard, but it surely wasn’t the king’s appearance. 

At his hip, bare of any sheath, he bore a blue-steel sword from the desert forges in the far north, rarest and most valuable of weapons, the thousand folds of its construction clear in waves along its blade, but his posture was so casual that it seemed more ornamental than threatening. 

He was well dressed, favouring the dark red he had made his signature, though his embroidered coat was of finer stuff than anything worn by his guards. The crown on his head was a thick band of woven gold, a lost metal so rare that it was almost unknown aside from the three crowns of Alcanar, Levantar and Fornale. Beneath the crown, his light hair fell in careless waves on his forehead, and his face was boyish and smooth, making his true age impossible to discern. The faint hint of a smile curved the corner of his lips. 

There was strength still obvious in the breadth of his shoulders, traces of the fighter he had been when he took the crown, but there was nothing about him that seemed like a threat. Physically, he appeared far less imposing than the grim-faced man who had escorted Flynt, but when they approached the throne the warrior bent his knee with the utmost deference.

Flynt hurried to do the same, staying on one knee when the warrior rose and stepped aside, taking position to the right side of the throne, opposite the woman.

‘Thank you, Bear,’ Erryan said. His voice was deep and resonant, and he sounded strangely fond of his silent warrior. 

Flynt wondered if Bear was a nickname or the only name the man had, but he was distracted from the question when the king addressed him directly.

‘I have heard great things of you, Flynt Coal.’ The fond tone was gone, replaced with idle interest that was distinctly unsettling coming from a man with such a dark reputation.

‘I am flattered, sire,’ Flynt said, keeping his eyes on the floor. It was uncomfortable to bare the back of his neck, but he didn’t dare look the king in the eye without permission. In truth, he was more familiar with common customs and the unspoken rules of tavern-brawling than the proper attitude to show in a throne room. It wasn’t information he had ever really expected to need.

‘It is said that it is impossible to tell you a lie. Is that the case?’

Flynt shook his head. ‘You can tell as many lies as you like, sire, it’s just that I’ll be able to tell.’

It was pedantry at its finest, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

Thankfully, Erryan laughed, a deep and melodious chuckle.

‘I stand corrected.’

Emboldened, Flynt ventured to add; ‘It isn’t always as simple as yes or no, either. I may know someone is lying, but that doesn’t tell me what the truth is unless the question is very specific.’ 

If this was going where he suspected, and the king had some task for him, the last thing he wanted was expectations that were beyond the scope of his flair.

‘I trust you are very good at asking the right questions, then.’ It wasn’t a question, and it was easy to mentally add “or else” to the end of it.

Flynt swallowed. ‘I’ve had some practice,’ he allowed.

Erryan laughed again. ‘Good. If you’d have the manners to look me in the eye, I have work for you.’

Flynt’s head came up so fast he almost hurt himself. The king’s eyes were very blue and very deep, endless wells with nothing but darkness at their heart.

‘Much better,’ Erryan said, staring directly into Flynt’s eyes. It was impossible to look away, and for the first time Flynt felt real, present fear rather than the unease of reported danger.

_Lares help me, I don’t know what his flair is,_ Flynt thought, gazing into those bottomless blue eyes and praying that it was nothing that could hurt him. A story whispered in the low taverns swam up out of memory and did nothing to comfort him:

_They say he can stop a man’s heart with his mind, but he doesn’t. Why would he? There’s no fun in that._

Flynt shuddered despite himself, and with that, the moment was broken.

‘You look too young to have fought, but I’m sure you know the tale of how I won the crown?’ Erryan said, as though he hadn’t just been trying to read Flynt’s mind through his eyeballs.

‘I’ve heard it, sire.’

‘I buried my blade in King Fray’s guts in this very room, but I never saw him cold and dead,’ Erryan said. ‘It was assumed that his body had been muddled in with the others, but I have begun to wonder.’

‘Forgive me, but why now?’

‘After ten years?’ Erryan agreed. ‘Little birds are twittering in the forests, saying some very dangerous things. The whole family disappeared, you know. Fray, if he lived, and Queen Talon and their two children. His son Valaryan would be in his twenties, about your age, I think. A young man like that, who remembers growing up a prince and losing it all, well, that kind of man might just be fool enough to try and start a fight, mightn’t he?’

Flynt’s eyes went very round at the idea. ‘I can imagine so,’ he conceded.

‘Bandits in Fray’s green, and the old king’s name being murmured after ten years of silence? It’s highly suggestive, at the very least. I was content to leave them be when they were only in the deep forest, let the dryads have them,’ he said, with a horrible chuckle. Flynt shuddered again. ‘But there have been problems on the road north to the mountains, and rumours as far south-east as Lake Verny, far too wide-spread for my liking. I find myself in need of a man of your talents.’

Flynt nodded slowly. He swallowed nerves and said, ‘Even with the rumours, the trail is ten years cold, sire.’

‘If it were a simple matter, my guards would have cleared it up already, or I would have sent Linse and Bear to hunt them down,’ Erryan said, waving nonchalantly at the warriors who flanked him.

Flynt’s eyes flicked instinctively to the man, all too aware of how frightening he was even when he _didn’t_ intend to kill. The woman, Linse, was an unknown quantity, but if Erryan considered them an equal pair, she must pose a serious threat.

Erryan saw the direction of Flynt’s look and smiled. ‘He does make a delightfully intimidating messenger in that skin. I’ve never seen anyone take down a bear like he can. Whenever his cloak gets ragged he goes out and hunts another,’ he said, sounding amused at such antics. 

Bear said nothing, but Linse grinned and murmured something that might have been ‘Showoff’ just barely loud enough to hear.

Like anyone with sense, Flynt did his best to avoid bears on his travels, and he was sure that seeking them out for fun was a solid sign of insanity.

‘Unfortunately, this isn’t a matter for their skills,’ Erryan continued. ‘Find out what happened the night the castle fell, and if Fray and his family are alive or if this is some band of rabble-rousers trading on their name. If they live, find them. Only then will there be work for my warriors.’

Flynt nodded again. ‘I was due to leave this morning,’ he started, already fairly certain of Erryan’s response.

The king shook his head, slow and deliberate. ‘There are other thieftakers. Let the merchants handle their own petty affairs.’

‘As you wish, sire,’ Flynt agreed, thinking bitterly that he had come so close to escaping. ‘I’ll need to talk to anyone in the castle who was here ten years ago. If there’s any trace to follow, one of them might know it.’

‘You have full access to the keep and its grounds,’ Erryan promised. ‘Work swiftly, Flynt Coal.’

‘I will,’ Flynt promised.

‘Good. Get to work. And Flynt? If you cross me...’ 

Flynt blinked and there were spiders pouring out from beneath the throne, red-backed and poisonous. They swarmed forward, boiling over the stone, climbing over and over each other in their rush to reach him. Thousands of sharp-tipped legs rustled and tap-tapped on the stone.

Horrified, Flynt made to scramble back, to get to his feet and run. He couldn’t move. His muscles would not obey, his joints would not unbend. He could only watch the spiders come. He opened his mouth and screamed when the crawling mass latched onto his clothes and scrambled up his body. The searing pain of their bites turned his skin to liquid fire, and he could only howl. 

The spiders reached his face and climbed into his gaping mouth, biting his tongue and cramming themselves down his throat in a choking, squirming mass. They crawled across his nose and sank their fangs into his open eyes. His vision went white as their venom ate through his eyeballs.

Flynt was dying, blind and agonised, then all at once he was fine. He fell forward, catching himself on his hands as control of his limbs returned, gasping and retching. There wasn’t a spider in sight, and he knew there never had been, but still he felt the white-hot pain of their bites.

He raised his eyes, shaking and sick, and found King Erryan watching him, still with that same faint smile on his lips.

‘I think I have made my point,’ he said mildly. ‘Now, get out.’

Legs trembling, chest heaving, Flynt struggled to his feet and staggered away. He couldn’t get out of the throne room fast enough, and the guards outside jumped when he slammed open the door.

When they saw the state he was in, they relaxed, looks of knowing pity on their faces. They made no move to stop him from reeling blindly away down the corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynt's investigation begins, and he seeks advice from an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a few very enthusiastic responses, so thank you for those! I guess I'll keep putting up chapters if people keep wanting them.

Linse caught up to him in a dusty library, after he had got lost and wandered the keep long enough to begin to calm down.

He was leaning against a solid bookshelf, grateful for the thick wood guarding his back, trying to muster enough thought to begin his investigation. 

Linse approached carefully, grace and strength in every step, apparently more worried about scaring him than the possibility of him lashing out. There was a finely carved cup in her hand, and she stopped at arm’s length and held it out.

‘There better not be spiders in that,’ Flynt said hoarsely.

Linse’s lips quirked. ‘So that’s what he did. No, it’s just colonche, to steady your nerves. No spiders,’ she promised.

Flynt took the cup and sipped, letting the sweet fizz wash away the phantom burn of spider venom.

‘Has he ever done that to you?’ he asked.

‘Spiders? No. Other things, probably just as awful? Of course.’

Flynt just shook his head, lost for words. The immediate question was why she would serve a man who could do such things, but it answered itself before he even opened his mouth – in the face of a flair like that, what choice was there but to serve?

‘How do I stop him doing it again?’

Linse laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you find out, please tell me. Do what he wants, but know that that’s no certain protection. He’ll probably leave you alone a while, at least. There’s no sense in driving you mad before your work is done.’

‘You are _terrible_ at reassurance,’ Flynt told her bluntly.

That drew a more genuine laugh. ‘I haven’t had much use for it.’

Flynt finished his drink and blew his breath out in a heavy sigh. ‘Where should I start?’ he said, not really expecting an answer. Erryan had said she was no investigator.

Linse shrugged. ‘Where do you usually start?’

‘With facts. What actually happened. In this case, what happened the night Erryan took the crown. I’ve heard stories, but they’re half legend. The details change. Were you here when it actually happened?’

‘No. Bear was. He fought for Erryan.’

Flynt grimaced. The warrior didn’t look any older than him, and he couldn’t have been much more than a child during that battle. 

‘I’m sure that conversation will be a real treat. I think I’ll start with people less likely to tear out my spine.’

‘Try the staff, then,’ Linse said amusedly. ‘Cooks and gardeners and such. Most of them survived the fighting, and some are still here.’

‘I will,’ Flynt said. ‘Thank you for the drink.’

Linse just dipped her chin and walked out, leaving the room suddenly dim without the glow of her firebird feathers.

Flynt resigned himself to getting lost again and left the library, determined to wander until he found a way out into the gardens or someone to speak with, whichever one came first.

He got turned around somewhere between one of the many upstairs bedchambers and the square guardroom above the dungeon, happening upon a long hall hung with portraits. 

He made his way slowly along it, moving forward in time as the royal portraits changed from warrior kings and queens in full armour, changing from one surname to another every time as they were overthrown, to more peaceful families that sometimes held the crown for generations. The Lanoso line which led to Fray had four generations of portraits before their dynasty was cut short. At the far end of the gallery, he stopped in front of a portrait of the last royal family.

He was half surprised that Erryan hadn’t had the painting destroyed, but there seemed to be a tradition of allowing them to remain undamaged despite the violence of regime changes. The neat shrine to the castle’s Lar at the end of the hall explained why – if the royal portraits were under the protection of the guardian spirit, destroying them would be a sure-fire way to bring its wrath down upon you.

The portrait was large and brightly painted, dominated by the spring green that was King Fray’s favoured colour. It couldn’t have been finished long before the castle had fallen to Erryan, judging by the ages of the two children. Fray and Talon were joined by a gangly adolescent boy and a sweetly smiling blonde girl. Fray himself was a sleepy-eyed man with dark hair. He was standing almost casually, one arm around the waist of his queen and the other hand resting on his son’s shoulder. Talon was blonde and fine-boned, and her looks had clearly passed on to their daughter.

Flynt spent some time staring at the portrait, wondering what had happened to this smiling family. He tried to memorise their faces, but he couldn’t say if that would do him any good. If any of them still lived, there was no guarantee that they would still look the same.

_If they’ve any sense, they look as different as possible,_ Flynt thought.

Leaving the gallery by a spiral staircase which turned out to deposit him outside the throne room again, he made another attempt at getting outside. All the while, he was deeply thankful that he wasn’t trying to mount an assault on the keep. The maze-like construction was so effective that he could only imagine the nightmare it would be with guards at every corner trying to kill him. The guards he had encountered lurking around some of the closed doors hadn’t hindered him, but none of them had been old enough to tell him about Fray’s last night as king, either.

Just when he was sure he would never see daylight again, he found one of the few small postern gates that led out of the keep. He emerged behind a curtain wall, but when he stepped around it he found himself at the back of the keep, facing down the hill away from the city. The silver ribbon of the river glinted in the sun far below.

Shaking his head, Flynt looked out into the garden. His conversation with the king and his escapades afterwards had taken so long that it was already mid-afternoon, and he had learned virtually nothing. Since he had nothing better to go on, he decided to assume for a moment that Fray had survived, and escaped the keep through the very gate that he had just used. If that had been the case, where would he have gone after that?

He set off, moving from feature to feature that might have provided some cover during the chaos of a night battle. A well, a statue of a rearing horse, the oddly twisted trunk of a thick tree. 

The castle grounds were almost deserted; a trio of guards patrolled apparently at random, and he could see a few people working in the orchard to his right, but it was eerily quiet. There were no children, no animals, and it seemed he was a thousand miles from the noise and activity of the city below. 

There was a thick pall of fear and silence over the whole place, and he could feel it as an almost physical weight. If Erryan made a habit of turning people’s own minds against them, it was easy to imagine how careful everyone in the castle would be to stay beneath his notice. 

As he zig-zagged through the garden, following the imagined route like a hound on a long-forgotten scent, he noticed many other strange trees with elegantly twisted limbs. The oldest trees grew normally, as did the youngest, but for a period of years all the trees in the castle garden had grown into spirals and loops, or forked suddenly as though lightning-struck.

He saw a grey-haired gardener laying compost around a bed of mint and stopped beside her.

‘Why do the trees look like that?’

She looked up, and her eyes went wide. Plainly, word of his investigation had already spread through the castle, and he cursed inwardly at that. His hopeless wanderings had wasted any chance to speak to people before they were on their guard. He couldn’t flush out witnesses if they chose to be suddenly “ill” and disappeared.

‘Queen Talon had an odd flair with them,’ she said, hiking her dirty shirtsleeves up where they had unrolled from her elbows. ‘Things she tended grew faster, and in what shapes she pleased, so she could craft wood while it was still living.’

‘And no one here now can do the same?’ Flynt guessed, thinking of the straight-boled young saplings.

‘No one,’ the gardener agreed. ‘We’ve several gardeners with some kind of flair, but I never saw anyone else with hers.’

‘Were you here the night the castle fell?’

The old woman nodded, looking suddenly tired at the very thought of it. ‘Most of us who didn’t fight were in the dungeon, safe out of the way. There was nothing to do but wait it out.’

That sounded like a nightmare to Flynt. If nothing else, he would have wanted to know that he could try to control his fate, his dagger in hand, even if that put him closer to harm. Waiting for the blow to fall wouldn’t suit him at all.

_And doesn’t it sting that Erryan can hold an axe over my head without even needing the fucking axe?_ he thought bitterly.

The gardener was watching him expectantly, and he pulled his thoughts back to the conversation.

‘Did you see any of the Lanosos that night, before you went into the dungeon?’

The woman thought for a moment, dredging up memories from long ago. If it hadn’t been such an usual day, he wouldn’t hold any hope of anyone remembering it at all. In his experience it was hard enough to get answers about events a few days old.

‘Talon and Quiline were in the garden in the morning, before the first attack,’ she said slowly. ‘I never saw any of them after that.’

There was no tell-tale itch. As far as she knew, it was the truth.

‘Who’s Quiline?’ The name wasn’t familiar, and if she was related to the royal family she had been left out of the portraits.

‘The architect. She still lives in the keep, looks after the place to stop it falling down around us,’ she said with a little chuckle.

‘Where would I find her?’

‘Her rooms are on the east side of the third floor, or you might see her wandering about somewhere. She’s a solid sort, red-haired.’

‘Like Linse?’

‘Bigger, and her hair is lighter.’ 

Flynt nodded, wondering whether it would prove more difficult to find the right rooms in the frustrating maze of the castle than to simply run into her. 

He thanked the gardener and moved on, walking his circuitous route toward the outer wall. Since Talon’s flair had been centred on the trees, it was likely that she would have known the grounds exceptionally well. If she had been escaping through them, that would certainly have worked in her favour.

_There should be some record of what Fray’s flair was, and if the children had their own_ , he reasoned. Depending on what they were, those magical flairs might have aided their escape.

The castle wall was fifty feet of solid stone, so closely jointed and well kept that Flynt couldn’t even fit a fingertip between the stones, despite their extraordinary age. He walked at arm’s length from the wall, following the long curve eastwards past a set of narrow stairs that led to the crenellated wall-top. 

Further along, a sally-port was shielded by a small, angled inner wall and watched by four guards, three men and a woman. It was the closest exit to Flynt’s starting point, and he stopped to examine it.

‘You that thieftaker?’ one of the guards asked, when he showed too much interest in their gate.

‘I am,’ Flynt agreed. ‘Were any of you four here when the castle was taken?’ They looked young, unbloodied, and he seriously doubted it.

Sure enough, all four responded in the negative.

‘Can you open the gate?’ Flynt asked. ‘I’d like to see where it leads out.’

The biggest man grunted agreement, and Flynt stood by and watched as the heavy gate bar was lifted out of its brackets, bolts were shot back and a key turned in the iron lock. It was quite a production, and he was sure it couldn’t have been managed by one person, in secret, in the midst of a night attack.

_If all the sally-ports are locked up so tight, there goes that theory,_ Flynt thought, then wondered how Erryan himself had got in. If one of the gates had been breached, then the way in for the attackers could have been a way out for the royals. _Not that they’d have got Fray out, if Erryan really sliced him open as badly as he thought._ It was more likely that the old king had died, but his family had escaped without him.

All those thoughts had time to run through his mind before the heavy iron-bound gate finally swung open, revealing a deep, scrub-filled ditch and the open hillside beyond. There was a narrow wooden bridge laid over the ditch outside the gate, but it was flimsy, plainly meant to be smashed if the castle was attacked. The closest houses were a good fifty yards away, and there was no cover at all in between.

‘Assuming I got over the ditch, and I was running off down that hill at night, what do you think the chances are of me being seen before I reached the houses?’

‘Pretty high,’ said the woman. ‘Some of the guards posted on the wall have flairs for vision, and even the ones who don’t would probably see you. We light the hillside at night, if there’s reason.’

‘And when the castle was under attack, it would have been lit?’

‘Absolutely.’

Flynt nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks. You can close the gate now.’

He made no move to go back through it, waving the guards away when they paused to let him in. 

‘You want us to let you in later?’

‘No, I’m going home. I’ll come in by the main gate tomorrow.’

It was late enough, and the day had been difficult enough that he meant to leave his investigations there. He might as well take the back route down the hill and get a better idea of the area on his way home.

The gate clanged emphatically shut, and Flynt spent a moment staring up at the towering edifice of the wall and thinking about how daunting it would seem to an attacker. It was off-putting enough when he knew that the guards would let him in if he asked.

He crossed the bridge, feeling it bend and bounce under his slight weight, and went off down the hill, pausing partway down to look up at the wall. He could see unlit torches set ready for the night patrols, and the dark shapes of armoured guards passing in and out of view between the crenellations. From that high vantage, there was no way they couldn’t see him as well.

_They didn’t have a hope of getting out through a gate,_ Flynt thought, shaking his head as he walked away. Given that assumption, there had to have been some other way in and out. 

The architect, Quiline, ought to know the castle better than anyone, and he resolved to find her in the morning. In the meantime, though, he wanted nothing more than to get home. 

When he had got down the hill into the city proper, the noise of people and animals was almost a shock, after the unnatural quiet of the castle grounds. He was walking through a pleasant, wealthy district and he revelled in the ordinary comings and goings of people heading home or meeting with friends to eat and be entertained by street actors and musicians. 

He bought a hot pastry from one of the numerous hawkers as he walked towards the distant dyeworks, biting into peccary meat and root vegetables and finding himself suddenly ravenous. Under the appalling stress of Erryan’s summons he hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t eaten all day. 

The hot food sat heavy in his stomach, and he welcomed that solidity, feeling distinctly unsettled by his hours in the castle. He thought of the packed bag he had left in his room, and wondered how it could only have been that morning that he thought he would be leaving for Parela.

As the sun went down he finally reached narrower, more familiar streets, their inhabitants less brightly dressed but no less boisterous. 

He turned away from his home streets for a while, heading into a small, earthen plaza nestled on the fringe of the dye district and the garment district, where the first few tailors had set up shop close to their suppliers. The little oval was thick with low, spreading trees, their waxy spring blooms filling the air with heavy perfume. 

He stopped outside a modest house on the plaza’s north side, so old that its timbers were almost black, squeezed between two newer structures many storeys higher. The house was a relic of an older Ciquade, its two ranks of windows arched and narrow, and very much out of fashion. It seemed inevitable that it would be swallowed up by the growing city around it, demolished in favour of some more effective use of space, but for the moment it still clung on. 

Flynt paused and brushed fallen pink petals from his shoulders, then knocked briskly and pushed open the door without waiting for a reply. This was one house where he knew he was always welcome.

He stepped into a living space that took up much of the house’s lower floor; a small bookshelf, a round table and a few low benches strewn with bright cushions arrayed around its edge. The table was thick with cups and bottles, some apparently full of drink, others easily recognisable as the smaller clay vessels favoured by herbalists. The centre of the room was dominated by a large chair with well-worn blankets thrown over its high back and a wide wooden loom.

Seated at the loom was a dark-haired woman, broad framed and clever fingered, throwing bright yellow thread back and forth as her foot moved the dual layers of warp up and down. The sleeves of her pale blue shirt were rolled to the elbow, showing scarred forearms that told tales of many fights. The once-solid muscles beneath had softened, a sign of slowing that didn’t match her still-black hair. She was by no means old, but her sedentary activity was explained by the slow rasp of struggling breath that was louder even than the clack of the loom.

She barely glanced at Flynt when he closed the door behind himself, watching her weaving take shape instead. Still, she wasn’t ignoring him entirely.

‘Fetch us both a cup of wine and sit down, you look like you’re bringing in trouble again,’ she said, low and breathy, when he paused in the doorway, trying to shed the tension from his shoulders.

‘I like to keep you busy,’ he answered, going to the table and doing as she asked.

He waited until she had locked off her thread and turned aside before he pressed a cup of wine into her hand and kissed her forehead in greeting.

‘How are you, Lion?’ he asked, trying to gauge her health by sight alone. She looked no different, and her breathing sounded no worse than usual, but he was sure there had been fewer medicine bottles on her table when last he visited.

Her green eyes, when she met his, were bloodshot, and glazed with a mixture of pain and strong medicine.

‘No better and no worse,’ she said, as firmly as her voice would allow. ‘I found a herbalist willing to try a new healing draught, but she didn’t have Rosyr’s flair, and it did nothing at all.’ 

‘Better that than making you worse,’ Flynt said at once, feeling a cold thrill of horror at the memory of Rosyr’s attempt to help. His medicines had powerful properties of growth and regeneration, but when he gave one to Lion, it only seemed to grow whatever was crushing her lungs. After that disaster, he had refused to try giving her anything but carefully measured draughts against pain, fearing to kill her outright.

‘It’s a matter of pain relief and waiting for the inevitable, it seems,’ Lion agreed, sounding a little annoyed at the wait. She had never been one for hanging about, and there was little more frustrating than a long illness. 

Flynt was sure that she wished she had gone out into the wilds when she still had the strength, and met her end tracking thieves and murderers. He was selfish enough to be glad that she hadn’t. He would have missed her company.

‘What’s wrong with you, then?’ she asked, still sharp enough to know when he wasn’t at his best.

Flynt sighed. ‘I seem to have attracted the wrong kind of attention.’

‘River traders?’ she guessed, long familiar with their prickly attitude to meddling thieftakers.

Flynt chuckled. ‘I wish, but no. Did you ever have dealings with the castle?’

Lion shook her head at once. ‘Not with the Lanosos, nor with the new king. I count myself lucky on the latter.’

‘I’m sure,’ Flynt said, rather glumly wishing he could have been so lucky, or at least that she had experience to share. It seemed he was beyond anything his teacher knew. ‘King Erryan summoned me. He wants me to find out if the old king is still alive.’

‘Well, shit,’ Lion said flatly, looking abruptly concerned. ‘Is he as bad as they say?’

‘Worse,’ Flynt said, without even needing to consider it. ‘I don’t want to go into details, but he has a very nasty flair, and no scruples about using it. I don’t know what to do.’

Lion eyed him carefully, taking in his frazzled appearance. ‘You don’t want to work for him, but you daren’t tell him so,’ she said at last.

‘Exactly. I wondered if you knew what the law says here. The king can’t command the greycoats,’ he said, using the common term for the grey-clad and carefully neutral city guards, ‘But can he command a thieftaker?’

Lion frowned, her eyes flicking to the bookshelf and the few tomes of law it held as though looking at their spines would help her memory of their contents. She had taught Flynt everything in the books that a thieftaker usually needed to know, but this was a rare circumstance. There was a long pause while she thought, her rasping breaths the only sound in the house.

‘Honestly? I don’t think it will help you,’ she said at last. ‘You are, for most purposes, a private citizen, and thus you don’t have a particular allegiance to a commander, as the greycoats do. That means the king can command you as he commands any other citizen of Alcanar, and it is up to you whether you obey or not. You swore an oath to uphold justice, and you have a duty to keep it, but if that ever comes into conflict with the king’s orders, you have no special protection from him.’

The statement took time, given slowly and with pauses for thought as much as breath, and Flynt’s heart only grew heavier as it continued.

‘That’s not comforting,’ he said, when she had finished.

Lion rasped a laugh. ‘Don’t come to me for pretty lies, my boy, you know better.’

Flynt gave a half smile at that. She had never cushioned a blow in her life, and he might even have been more worried if she had tried.

‘Is there a conflict between your oath and his orders?’ Lion asked, her face set. If that were the case, it could hardly be a more serious matter.

Flynt shook his head slowly. ‘No. Not yet, at least, but I can’t swear it’ll stay that way. I think I hate him,’ he added, with the suddenness of realisation. ‘Is that treason?’

Lion snorted. ‘If thought alone were treason, no doubt everyone would be guilty.’

That was a small comfort, at least. If there was nothing else in the law, Flynt would have to cling to his hard-earned instincts, and hope that didn’t put him at odds with the king.

‘There’s not much else I can tell you,’ Lion said, when they had sat in silence a while, sipping slowly at their wine. ‘You ought to at least start an investigation, though what he thinks you’ll find after all these years is a mystery to me.’

‘I said as much, but he didn’t seem to like it,’ Flynt said glumly.

‘Demanding clients are nothing new, though,’ Lion pointed out calmly. ‘You have good sense, even without your flair, and it’ll be up to you to decide if there’s a conflict between what Erryan wants and what is right.’

‘I hoped you wouldn’t say that,’ Flynt said, pulling a face. ‘But I know, I know, there’d be no good in lying to me.’

‘Of course not,’ Lion said, with a little smile at the underlying joke. ‘Go home, Flynt, and get some rest. You look half sick yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ Flynt said, getting reluctantly to his feet and putting his cup back on the cluttered table. ‘Do you need anything before I go?’

Lion got carefully to her feet and waved him away as he started trying to tidy the empty bottles. ‘I can sort that, I’m not entirely useless. Just, next time you see Rosyr, tell him I’m running low.’

‘I will,’ Flynt promised. He leaned in and she kissed his brow, tall enough to manage without having to stretch.

‘Let me know how it goes,’ she said. ‘It might be the most interesting case in a decade, if you actually find anything.’

‘We’ll see,’ Flynt said, unable to deny that he was curious, despite his misgivings.

He left Lion pouring herself a second cup of wine, closing the door behind him with a sigh. He had hoped for some loophole, some protection from Erryan, but if there was no such thing, he couldn’t blame Lion for it. 

If nothing else, seeing her was more settling than he realised. As soon as he stepped out into the dark, blossom-rich plaza he felt the weight of worry grow again, unnoticed until it suddenly returned, and he started for home with the weary trudge of a man who had travelled too far already.

~

He was ten steps from his own lodging house when he stopped short, thinking of the silence of his room and finding isolation an unwelcome idea. Tired as he was, sleep might be a long time in coming. He turned on his heel and went to Rosyr’s shop instead.

The door opened with its old, familiar creak, despite the late hour. Rosyr only ever locked it if he was sleeping or on the rare occasions that he actually left the shop, arguing that there were no set hours when people might be in need of a healer.

The main room was empty, but Rosyr shouted ‘Give me a moment!’ from the back room.

Flynt didn’t bother waiting, going to the open doorway and leaning against the frame to watch his friend work.

Rosyr didn’t even glance at him, preoccupied with the delicate business of adding some kind of dark brown oil drop by drop to a bubbling flask. When that was done, he took the vessel off the flame and stoppered it, shaking it vigorously before setting it aside to cool. Only then did he look to his visitor, and his open face lit with surprise when he saw Flynt.

‘I thought you’d be halfway to the Gap by now,’ he said. ‘Instead you’re here looking like shit for the second time in two days. What happened?’

Flynt grinned wryly. ‘I’m pretty sure you don’t get to say I look like shit if I’m not bleeding everywhere.’

Rosyr tipped his hand back and forth, plainly meaning that it was open to interpretation, and Flynt laughed despite himself.

‘I don’t know why I like you.’

‘It’s mutual,’ Rosyr assured him. ‘Now talk – why aren’t you on a boat to Parela?’

Flynt sighed and spilled the whole sorry story, going light on the details of what Erryan’s flair could do. He had no desire to relive the experience by explaining it.

‘Just put it this way – I understand _exactly_ why the guard captains are scared of him.’

By the time he was finished, Rosyr looked deeply troubled, fiddling distractedly with powders and bottles of liquid on his workbench for the lack of any way to actually help.

‘The greatest danger you’ve ever been in, and it isn’t even your own stupid fault,’ he remarked, with somewhat forced levity.

‘I know, I’m wrecking all your expectations,’ Flynt agreed.

‘What will you do?’

Flynt shrugged. ‘Investigate, hope and pray I find something to the king’s liking before his patience runs out. What else can I do?’

Rosyr’s lips twisted unhappily. ‘Leave?’ he guessed. ‘His flair can’t be limitless, you’d probably be safe if you were far enough away.’

‘Probably, but I couldn’t live in exile. Travel’s one thing, but I’ll always come back to Ciquade.’

Rosyr stepped close and hugged him. 

‘Admit it, you’d miss me too much,’ he said in Flynt’s ear, barely restraining his amusement. 

The embrace was jokingly meant, but there was comfort in it all the same, and Flynt gladly wrapped his arms around Rosyr’s thin, bony frame.

‘That’s right, it’s nothing to do with the Lar, or the call of home, it’s all you.’

‘I knew it.’

Eventually they stepped apart, and Flynt let out a long, slow breath. 

‘Before I forget, Lion said to tell you she’s running out of whatever medicine you’re giving her.’

Rosyr nodded, unsurprised. ‘I’ll make some more. It’s only something to ease the pain, but it’s not nothing. Any change?’

Flynt shook his head, and Rosyr made a face. They both knew what must inevitably happen with such an illness, but that didn’t mean either of them had to like it. Rosyr had met Flynt before his lessons with Lion began, and he had come to know her very well over the years.

In the lengthening quiet Flynt took stock of his own mind and deeply disliked what he found there. Erryan’s work lingered.

‘I’ll sleep here tonight, if I may?’

Rosyr waved an idle hand, deliberately casual.

‘And if you love me at all, you’ll wake me if you hear screaming,’ Flynt added, his voice rather more raw than he had intended.

That got Rosyr’s attention. In all the years they had known each other, after all the terrible things Flynt had seen and done in his work, there were only a handful of nights when anything had left him screaming in his sleep.

‘It’s something to do with his flair, but I don’t want to know more, do I?’ Rosyr said carefully.

‘No, you really don’t.’

‘I’ll wake you,’ Rosyr promised, and dropped the subject. 

Flynt could not have been more grateful to him. He listened to his friend explain the new brew he was making, understanding barely half of it but glad to have something less worrying than his investigation to tire out his brain.

When he retired to the little room by the garden and prepared for bed, Rosyr was still tinkering in the brewery, and the small clinks of glass and quiet curses soothed him into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle is a maze, but perhaps the architect will have some answers, if Flynt can convince her to share.

Rosyr woke him twice during the night, looking tight-faced and pale, and stayed with him until he slept again. 

Flynt didn’t remember his dreams in the morning, but he didn’t feel rested either, dragging himself out of bed with the utmost reluctance. The last thing in the world he wanted was to go back to the castle, but he had very little choice.

Rosyr gave him cornbread and milk, and lorro leaves to chew as he walked to the castle. Flynt preferred to avoid the stimulant leaves when he could, but if he was to get anything done he would need their effect to counter his lack of sleep.

Before he left his home district, he went to the shrine of the local Lar, a round dais tucked in a small open circle where four streets met.

A carefully-tended oil lamp burned perpetually at the centre of the shrine, and all around it were slips of wood carved with thanks and pleas for help. Being the Lar of the area around the dyeworks, many of the slips were dipped in colour, and the whole collection was a rainbow spot in the midst of the dark wood houses.

Flynt stood and stared at the shrine for a long moment, eyes narrowed and brow heavy. It was perhaps unwise to visit the Lar in such a confrontational mood, but he was less than happy with the spirit which had gifted him his truth-seeking flair. Without it, he would never have had cause to get within half a mile of the mad king, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was being punished for his own success.

‘This is your idea of a joke, isn’t it?’ he muttered to the flame. There was no reply, but he felt better for saying it.

The walk to the castle seemed far easier without the looming presence of Bear at his back, though he still felt his anxiety rising as he approached the main gate. He tried his best to quash it, planning his approach for the day instead, and by the time he was challenged at the gate he was mostly calm.

‘State your business,’ a solid man in red armour demanded, barring his path with the grey steel of a drawn sword.

Flynt met his gaze firmly, unconcerned by ordinary guards. He had spent years working with the local guards in half a dozen cities, and in most matters their authority was no greater than his own.

‘Thieftaker Flynt Coal, here at King Erryan’s request,’ he said.

The guard nodded, sheathing the sword. Erryan had plainly meant it when he said Flynt would have all the access he needed.

‘Have you seen Quiline this morning?’ The gardener hadn’t given her family name, or even said if she had one, but he assumed the guards would know who he meant.

‘She came to look at the north end of the barracks,’ one man said. ‘She’s probably still there.’

Flynt nodded his thanks and strolled through the gate, deliberately not looking up at the pitch-stained murder holes.

The barracks were busy, men and women in red livery coming and going from dormitories and armouries and a central mess. The ring of steel drifted from the wide practice yard behind the main building, but Flynt made his way through the corridors to the north wall rather than going directly out of the other side.

The furthest room was a dormitory, filled with regimented beds and chests, deserted except for the red-haired woman who was on her knees at its far end, carefully measuring the bowing of the wall.

‘You must be the architect,’ Flynt said, when he was still a good distance away. He wasn’t trying to startle her.

She looked up, green eyes sweeping over him before she turned back to her work.

‘Quiline Estilo,’ she said without looking at him. ‘And you are?’

Her tone was dismissive, her name marked her as belonging to one of Ciquade’s wealthy, powerful families, and Flynt grimaced, foreseeing a difficult discussion.

‘Flynt Coal, thieftaker. I have some questions for you.’

‘Wait a minute, then,’ she said. ‘I’m busy.’

Flynt crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed but unwilling to argue. In fairness, she had been busy before he arrived, and it was easier to wait, so long as her work didn’t take too long.

Quiline fiddled around the wall with wedges and string for a few minutes, muttering figures that meant nothing to Flynt, then sat back on her heels and pulled a little book out of her coat pocket.

‘Definitely getting worse,’ she murmured, comparing the number she had calculated to the last entry on the page. She added the result with a stub of lead pencil, then stuffed the book back into her pocket and got to her feet.

Flynt had seen that she was solidly built, but he didn’t realise until she stood up that she was taller than him, not fat so much as framed on a larger scale. There was charcoal on her long brown coat and dust on the knees of her trousers, but the clothes were well made and expensive-looking despite her carelessness with them.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, finally turning her attention on him.

‘I’m trying to work out what happened the night King Erryan took the crown,’ Flynt said. ‘And while we’re at it, do you have a map of the keep? I spent half of yesterday getting lost.’

Quiline’s smile at that wasn’t entirely nice, but she waved for him to follow her anyway.

‘I have a few maps,’ she said. ‘As for the other matter, I’ll tell you what I remember, but it was a long time ago.’

Quiline led him out of the barracks and up to the keep, stopping twice to look back at the distant outer wall with an assessing gaze. Flynt could only assume it was some part of her work, and he didn’t press her when she paused in her story.

‘I was on the walls and at the gates earlier that day, watching for weaknesses and guiding the defenders in shoring them up. I can wield a blade if I must, and I did, but I freely admit that I left partway through the night assault. At that point the main gate had already been breached, and there was nothing further I could do. They had the numbers, and when they got inside the wall it was all over except the butchery.’

It seemed a callous assessment, but she probably wasn’t wrong. If nothing else, a woman of her skills was too valuable to waste on a doomed defence.

‘Did you go to the dungeon with the rest?’ Flynt asked.

‘No. I went to my rooms,’ Quiline said. ‘I didn’t leave again until after Erryan had taken the crown.’

‘Do you know how he got in?’

Quiline laughed mirthlessly. ‘By cutting down everyone in his way, I’d imagine. Almost all of Fray’s guards died.’

Inside the keep, Flynt followed her unfaltering lead up stairs and along corridors, ending up at a heavy door in a deserted third-floor hallway. It swung open when she pushed it, unlocked, and she went inside, gesturing imperiously for him to follow. 

It was a large workroom packed tight with well ordered papers, miniature models of the castle buildings and neatly arranged measuring tools. Another door on the north side of the space stood open, showing a glimpse of an equally orderly bedroom.

Flynt knew at once that looking around her own space told him more about Quiline than anything she had said. There was nothing that wasn’t related to her work, no decorations on the walls save for a huge diagram of Ciquade, showing every narrow lane and rat-run in extraordinary detail. 

This was a woman dedicated body and soul to the castle, with an orderly mind and no patience for anyone who disrupted her work. It certainly explained her immediate disdain for him in the barracks; since she plainly had no qualms about working it wasn’t an issue of class, but he had dared try to speak to her while she was surveying.

Flynt looked slowly around and nodded to himself. He could respect that kind of dedication much more easily than blunt arrogance.

Quiline struck flint and steel to light the wicks of a flat-dished oil lamp on the table, since there was only one narrow south-facing window and even in daylight the room was dim. Once the flames caught she went directly to a wide shelf against the east wall and pulled down a stack of maps, knowing immediately where to find what she wanted.

‘How long have you lived here?’ Flynt asked, more for his own curiosity than his investigation.

‘I was born in Ciquade. My family have been the castle architects for five generations. My father and his mother and so on and so on,’ she said, waving her hand impatiently. ‘I took the role twenty years ago. Like most of the others who’re still here, I was too useful for Erryan to kill.’ 

There was very little respect in her voice when she spoke the king’s name, but Flynt was willing to bet that wasn’t uncommon. Even Linse, one of his most trusted pair of guardians, seemed to fear him more than she loved him.

Quiline flipped through the stack of vellum and paper sheets and extracted a set of three two-foot square maps of the keep.

‘There’s not much fine detail, but these will show you the first three floors of the keep well enough to stop you getting lost so much,’ she said, laying them out on the empty table by the lamp.

Flynt bent over them, seeing a jumbled collection of rooms and halls set out plainly in black ink.

‘How many floors are there?’ he asked. It was virtually impossible to judge, given the lack of windows in most of the keep.

‘Five, or nine, depending on how you count,’ Quiline said. ‘There are half-floors in places and they don’t all match up neatly, and then there are two levels of attics and the roof and the dungeon and the cellar.’

Flynt scowled at the very thought. ‘No wonder I kept getting bloody lost.’

Quiline laughed. ‘The first three floors from the ground up are about as simple as it gets, and even those are designed to confuse. Here, for example,’ she said, tracing a line on the first map. ‘You’d expect this corridor to come out beside the throne room, but it actually curves slightly the whole way down, and you can’t tell when you’re walking along it. The curve is enough to bring you out fifteen feet west of where you expect, and if you don’t know to turn left into the little room here and left again immediately, you end up at the bottom of a staircase instead.’

‘I think I came down that stair,’ Flynt said, squinting at the map. ‘The top is in the portrait gallery, isn’t it?’

‘At one end, yes. There’s another one in the middle, but that one goes up to a half-floor between the second and third, as well as down to the cellar.’

‘Lares, how do you live here?’ Flynt wondered aloud.

Quiline chuckled again. ‘Practice, I suppose. I know these halls blindfolded. The keep isn’t square at all from the inside. All the load-bearing walls are immensely thick, and it’s impossible to tell whether any given section is solid or not without doing a full survey. All the rooms are slightly odd shapes, so nothing matches up as you’d expect.’

‘And there are hidden spaces between them, I’d imagine?’

‘Of course. Some of them you can access, and others are just odd bits of dead space.’

Flynt hummed to himself. It made sense for such a peculiar building to have secrets. Perhaps they might hold the key to the Lanosos’ disappearance.

‘Are there any hidden ways that go all the way out of the keep?’

‘No,’ Quiline said at once.

Flynt’s brain itched, and he sensed immediately that he had found something valuable to his search.

‘Yes there are,’ he countered. ‘You’re the architect. Just because you didn’t build this place doesn’t mean that you haven’t spent two decades learning every inch of it.’

‘Fine, fine! There are, but I don’t know them all,’ Quiline protested, sounding distinctly annoyed.

Flynt’s flair stayed quiet and he nodded. A castle as vast and old as this could hide secrets even from the most dedicated scholar. 

‘Now that I do believe. Show me all the ones you know.’

Quiline’s face twisted unhappily. ‘It’s taken me most of my life to learn these ways. Why should I give them to you?’

Flynt sighed, genuinely sorry that he had to press the matter.

‘Honestly, I don’t want you to. I couldn’t give less of a cuss about this stone maze or anyone in it,’ he said, not entirely truthfully. Having seen a little of her knowledge, he thought it would be fascinating to have Quiline teach him about the keep just for curiosity’s sake. ‘But this case is thin enough as it is. If Erryan knew that I’d ignored a possible lead, I don’t want to think about his reaction.’ His skin crawled at the very thought of it.

There was sympathy in Quiline’s green eyes at that, mingled with her irritation.

‘He’s a hard man to refuse,’ she said quietly. She fidgeted around the table for a moment, fixing the red flag on top of a little model of the keep, then seemed to make up her mind.

‘Fine. I’d appreciate it if you kept this information to yourself. The more people who know about it, the more vulnerable the castle will be.’ 

‘I’m good at secrets,’ Flynt assured her.

With swift, short motions that spoke clearly of her annoyance, Quiline rolled the maps into a protective leather tube and handed them over. Flynt took them, using the attached strap to sling the tube across his chest out of the way.

Quiline collected two oil-lamps from a shelf and checked that they were full, then lit their wicks from the lamp on her table and handed one to Flynt. It was dark enough in the parts of the keep which were commonly used, so it made sense that the hidden places would be pitch black. 

She led him out of her workroom without another word, plainly resentful of having to show him anything at all. Flynt followed without complaint.

To Flynt’s surprise, Quiline led him up, not down. He would have expected any passage that led out of the castle to start at its lowest point, but they ended up in the west attic, just below the roof.

The space was low and thick with dust, and every step kicked up a cloud no matter how carefully they moved. Flynt pulled his shirt over his nose to try and stop himself choking as they edged around crates that hadn’t been disturbed in a generation. There were scuttling noises in the corners as rats ran from the invasion, and Flynt winced when he stepped on a long-dried rat skeleton that crunched into nothing under his boot.

_At least it was bones, not a fresh corpse,_ he thought, thankful for small mercies.

At the far western side of the attic, Quiline directed his attention to a particular section of the wall.

‘You see how the wall stops below the roof?’ she said, whispering in the cloying silence.

Flynt nodded. Up close, he could see that there was an inner wall with a space at its top criss-crossed with ancient wooden beams, then the main thickness of the outer wall that supported the flat roof.

Quiline dragged a box close and gestured for Flynt to step up so he could see over the wall.

The old wood creaked alarmingly under his feet, but it held, and Flynt held his lamp in the gap under the roof and stared down. Most of the wall was solid, no space between the inner and outer faces, but directly below him was an empty shaft that faded into utter darkness as the little light of his lamp was overwhelmed by distance. As far down as he could see, there was a sheer drop easily wide enough for a person.

‘We won’t do it now, since it takes a lot of effort, but you’ll know I’m telling the truth, won’t you?’ Quiline said archly, when he turned to her for an explanation. ‘They used this shaft to haul up slates when they first built the roof, but it goes further down than you’d think. If you drop a rope between the walls here you can slide all the way down into the foundations and get into a natural cave system that lets out in the river.’

‘In the bank somewhere? Isn’t that a major vulnerability?’ Flynt asked at once.

Quiline smirked. ‘No, _in_ the river. Even in a drought the cave exit is underwater. You can swim out, but you have to know how to do it. Trust me, it’s secure enough.’

Flynt stared down into the darkness and considered that. He knew that Fray had been mortally wounded in the throne room on the first floor, making it extremely unlikely that he could have made it to the attic and been capable of both the climb down and the swim out.

‘Is there a way in anywhere else?’

‘Into this gap? No. It’s a single shaft straight down.’

_No way Fray got out through here, then,_ Flynt thought. _The others, though..._

‘Where would Queen Talon and the children have been during the fighting?’

‘Talon was a fighter in her own right. I never saw her on the walls, of course, but I’d wager she was moving around inside the keep on the defensive once the gate fell. The children would have been under guard in their rooms on the second floor.’

Flynt hummed, considering. Talon could have taken her children and got to the attic when it was clear that the fight was lost, but Cetine hadn’t yet been ten years old. It would have been very difficult to bring her this way.

‘Are all the passages out as arduous as this one?’

Quiline shook her head. ‘I’m starting at the top and working down. Any reasoning beyond that is your business.’

‘Fair enough. I don’t think this is how they got out, but it is interesting,’ he said. ‘Where’s next?’

Their next stop was even less pleasant than the dusty attic. On the half-floor above Quiline’s rooms was an outer corridor so low that the tousled tips of Flynt’s hair brushed the ceiling. Quiline walked stooped, but the awkward position didn’t seem to slow her stride at all.

_She must be well used to these little spaces, even if she doesn’t look like she belongs in them at all,_ he reminded himself.

Flynt smelled the faint trace of old excrement before Quiline even pushed open the door at the end of the hall and stepped aside to let him pass.

There was a strong draught blowing through the space, and Flynt saw that they had come to a little room with a wooden seat that hung out over open air. He looked down into the latrine and saw a long, long drop to what looked like a manure pile.

‘It’s not used much now, since we have water latrines, but this has been here since the keep was first built, and it’s just wide enough that you could climb down through it if you wanted,’ Quiline said. ‘Feel free to test it.’ 

There was no trace of humour in her voice, and Flynt looked back and forth between the hole, with its lingering smell of shit, and the blank face of the architect.

‘Are you deliberately mocking me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Quiline said. 

The familiar itch of a lie bloomed in Flynt’s brain, and he looked at her incredulously.

‘Maybe,’ Quiline admitted, with the slight twitch of a grin around her lips.

Flynt just shook his head and backed out of the room. ‘I’m prying in your business and you don’t like it, I understand.’

‘You honestly could climb out that way. I might not fit, but most people would,’ Quiline pointed out, as they went back along the low hall. ‘But it wouldn’t get you out past the walls, and I seriously doubt anyone has ever done it.’

‘Could we keep to routes that someone might actually have used?’ Flynt asked.

Quiline paused to stretch her back when they reached a staircase with a higher ceiling, straightening her spine with an impressive series of pops. 

‘I make no promises,’ she told him. ‘This way.’

Despite her warning, the next two passages she showed him had genuine potential as escape routes. The first was a narrow gap on the half-floor over the portrait gallery where a hallway and a room met a supporting column, the angle of the walls keeping it hidden from all but those who knew how to find it. 

At some point long ago a ladder had been placed in the gap, and Quiline assured him that in the castle’s dry air it would be usable despite its age. Flynt went carefully down it, passing through the castle all the way into the grey rock of the hill beneath. He eventually found himself in the back of the lowest cellar, in an awkward space behind the solid racks that held massive tuns of lamp oil.

‘There’s a way out of the cellar,’ Quiline promised, when he climbed back up and pointed out that getting deeper into the castle wasn’t exactly helpful in an escape. ‘We’ll get to that.’

The next secret was in the portrait gallery, particularly interesting to Flynt because it was the first room they had come to which he had actually visited on his own.

Quiline didn’t so much as glance at the painting of the last royal family as they passed it, but there was a stiffness in her frame that told Flynt it took a deliberate effort not to.

_She knew them,_ he reminded himself. _She would have thought they were buried and gone ten years ago, and now you’re making her consider how they might have survived._

It wasn’t often that he felt like he was the one in the wrong in an investigation, but he hadn’t taken this one on willingly, and he was beginning to wonder if, for the first time in his life, he was using his flair to do more harm than good. It was a thought that deserved serious consideration, but in the meantime he needed to pay attention to what Quiline was showing him.

She had stopped half way down the gallery, next to the stairs which she had mentioned before, and her attention was on the huge portrait beside the arched doorway. It was one of the last single portraits before family groups became the custom, showing a powerful dark-skinned woman in full leather armour, her double-handed blue-steel sword raised in threat and a hard scowl on her face. 

The ornate black frame reached nearly to the floor, not unusual enough in the gallery to cause comment, but clearly there was something more to the placement of this particular work. 

Quiline handed her lamp to Flynt, then ran her hands down the right edge of the painting, catching a hollow in the frame and pulling sharply away from the wall.

The frame swung away like a door, slow and ponderous on hinges that carefully balanced its great weight. It was by far the most impressive secret Quiline had shown him, and Flynt stepped forward eagerly into the narrow space behind. There was an odd bit of corridor, then a narrow stair, stone built and solid, that led all the way down between the walls. The air was stale and cold, smelling of dust and old stone. It must have been years since anyone had opened the passage.

‘The portrait gallery has been rebuilt and extended at least twice,’ Quiline explained quietly, following him down the cramped stair. ‘This staircase was replaced by the one in the middle of the hall, and the passage was forgotten. My grandmother found it as a child, not from the top, but from the throne room.’

‘It lets out there?’ Flynt hissed, his interest suddenly piqued.

‘In an anteroom to it, yes, and it carries on down into the caves as well.’

‘Can you get all the way out through here?’

‘Yes. That particular cave leads out into a massive catacomb under the city. It’s been full for a century, and even though you can easily get into it at the bottom of the hill, no one will disturb the bones.’

Flynt just shook his head wonderingly. The keep and the city both held stranger secrets than he had ever really considered. His business was always with the city’s people and their rapidly-changing problems, but he could see why the old, slow-changing geography could be interesting as well.

Quiline pointed out the way into the throne room as they passed it, pressing a finger to her lips to warn him not to speak. Flynt hardly needed the warning; if Erryan was in the throne room and heard voices in the wall, it would seem much more suspicious than it really was.

Flynt had no idea if the king knew about the passages, but he was willing to bet that he didn’t. He hadn’t grown up in the keep, learning its hidden corners, and Quiline didn’t share her knowledge willingly. She had no reason to tell Erryan anything he didn’t directly force out of her.

There was another stair down, passing into the hill and growing more rough-hewn, carved directly out of the grey rock. They paused at the bottom of the stair, at the top of a natural passage that sloped further down through the hill. Flynt knew that Quiline had been honest about where it let out, and he could always investigate it further by himself, once he had seen all the ways she could show him.

‘Where does the stone of the keep come from? It’s nothing like the rock here.’

‘Of course not, this rock is terrible for building,’ Quiline said at once. ‘The castle stone isn’t even from this landmass. It was shipped south from Fornale and brought up the river centuries ago.’

‘Do you still use the same stone for repairs?’ Flynt asked, wondering at the immense cost and additional labour that would require.

‘We did, but it’s harder to get than it once was. The Ash Queen isn’t fond of Erryan – Linse told me there was an incident during a visit to Fornale a few years ago.’

‘What kind of incident?’

Quiline waved a hand dismissively. ‘Some matter of manners, or an insult to her bonded. I don’t care to recall. All that matters to me is that they’ve blocked our deliveries of stone, and I can’t repair the damned barracks properly until their diplomatic spat is over, and Lares only know when Erryan will be in the mood to apologise. It’ll serve him right if my reinforcements fail and the whole bloody building comes down, though I’m sure it’ll be my fault when it does!’

Flynt grimaced in sympathy. It couldn’t be pleasant to have that imminent failure hanging overhead, especially for someone who took their work as seriously as Quiline did.

He turned his attention back to the grey rock around them, giving her a moment to collect herself.

‘This is the easiest way out by far, and it passes the throne room,’ Flynt murmured, half to himself, and Quiline just nodded, still apparently fuming about the delay to her repairs.

Flynt crouched down, looking at the gritty stone in the light of his lamp. There was a great confusion of old footprints in the dust, but no traces of blood, and even after ten years he would have expected to see them. The cave was dry and still, with nothing that would have wiped them away. The Lanosos could easily have come this way, but if Fray had been with them and still bleeding, there would be some sign of it. 

_If he was bleeding,_ Flynt thought, and that reminded him that he had wondered about magical help in their escape. 

‘I saw Talon’s work in the gardens, and I know Fray must have had a flair in order to wear the crown. Do you know what it was? And if the children had flairs at all?’

Quiline nodded again. ‘Fray could see from afar, something the Lar of this castle gave him so he could overlook the city beyond even the usual view from the keep. Val never showed any sign of magic at all, but Cetine had some form of healing flair. She was just a child, still learning, and I never understood what exactly she could do. She didn’t have control of it yet.’

Flynt nodded, thinking hard. There had been no warning itch, so the information was true enough. The question was, could Cetine’s childish healing have saved Fray? If it was anything like Rosyr’s healing, she would have needed tools and time to even have a chance, and she might not have had either one when the castle fell.

Though the method was a mystery, the fact that the family had escaped seemed certain enough. There were enough routes they might have taken unseen. It was only Fray whose survival was in doubt, and Flynt couldn’t judge his chances without more information. Perhaps, with his daughter’s help, his injuries wouldn’t have been as fatal as Erryan intended.

_So they could definitely have come this way, and maybe Fray made it out with them, if Cetine could help him,_ Flynt thought. _It’s a chance, anyway, and that’s more than I thought he had before._

‘Where next?’ he asked, when he had finished considering the information.

‘The first floor library,’ Quiline said. ‘Then the cellar. They’re the only other ways I know that could let you out past the wall. There was another that led out to the hill somewhere, but it’s blocked. The ground shifts over time, and it’s hard to have repairs done on passages that don’t technically exist.’

Flynt nodded and gestured for her to lead the way back up the rough stairs. They followed the passage all the way back to the portrait gallery rather than risk popping out by the throne room, and Flynt was silently glad of that. Quiline might not like him much, but at least working with her he didn’t feel that she was waiting to report everything he said and did to the king. He wasn’t used to having such a threatening presence looming over his head as he worked, and the less he had to think about Erryan, the better.

The library turned out to be the same one that he had sheltered in after his up-close encounter with Erryan’s flair. It was spread out over two floors, connected by a spiral stair in the back corner of the room, and Quiline took him to the heavy mahogany bookshelf beside the staircase. 

Most of the books in the library looked old, but the ones on that shelf in particular were ancient, bound in leather set with opals and emeralds, hand written and immensely valuable. Quiline reached out to touch one of the spines hesitantly, then drew back her hand. 

‘We can move the shelf if you insist, but I’d rather not.’

‘Just tell me what’s behind it, and we’ll leave the books if we can,’ Flynt agreed.

‘The spiral stair actually goes down another level, into the back of the dungeon, and then there’s an old well-shaft that lets you down into the caves.’

‘So it’s flooded?’

‘Yes. Not deeply, unless there’s been a lot of rain – the well was abandoned for a reason.’

Flynt thought about it. It would be more thorough to move the shelf and follow the path down, but if it was flooded anyway, it was a less likely route.

_And I didn’t take the other routes all the way out anyway,_ he reminded himself. He might even go so far as to call his investigation so far half-assed, in comparison to his usual work, but there were extenuating circumstances. It wasn’t his choice to take on the case, it was ten years cold, and rather than there having been a murder, there was a chance that someone had lived unexpectedly. _Perhaps I’d like it better if I didn’t find anything, so long as Erryan can’t pin it on me,_ he thought, with a jolt of realisation.

‘I don’t suppose you remember if there’d been a lot of rain in the weeks running up to Erryan’s attack?’ he asked.

Quiline snorted. ‘Funnily enough, no. It was autumn, so take that as you will.’

Flynt shook his head. The weather was never more changeable than it was in autumn, so that told him less than nothing.

‘Leave the books alone,’ he said at last. ‘I’m chasing ghosts at best, and this doesn’t look like the easiest route anyway. I doubt they’d have had time to move the shelf.’

Quiline nodded, looking a little grateful for the concession. ‘The cellar is a better path,’ she offered, the first real suggestion she had made all day.

‘Last one, then,’ Flynt said, suddenly weary of grubbing through dust and darkness in search of a possible trail he wasn’t even sure he wanted to find.

They stepped out of the library and walked head-on into Bear and Linse. They were both in armour, brown and red, with weapons ready. Together, they looked like a threat without even having to draw their blades.

Flynt tensed, his hand clenched white-knuckled around the lamp, and he had to consciously loosen his grip before the clay cracked. He was doing exactly as he should be, but still it felt like being caught out, especially given his recent thoughts about doing a poor job. They had spent all day delving into secrets, and it was hard not to feel that there was something clandestine about their movements.

Quiline seemed less worried, or perhaps just more used to the intimidating pair. 

‘Linse, Bear,’ she said mildly. ‘Are you looking for us, or for somewhere quiet to read?’

It sounded like a joke to Flynt, given the eerily deserted state of the keep, but Quiline had been straight faced when she said it.

‘Looking for you,’ Bear said, looking directly at Flynt.

‘Both of you,’ Linse clarified. ‘If you have a minute?’

Flynt nodded as casually as he could. ‘We’re between investigations at the moment,’ he said. ‘Not that we’re dawdling, you understand. It’s just that these things take time...’ he trailed off uneasily under their gazes, feeling like a fumbling newcomer on his first case, rather than the great thieftaker Flynt Coal, renowned in all three kingdoms for his work. He hated how wrong-footed he was by the keep and its more powerful inhabitants.

Bear’s expression didn’t change from “considering if I can be bothered to kill you”, but Linse cracked a smile at his stumbling words, evidently aware of the effect they were having and deeply amused by it. 

‘Erryan wants to have you for supper tomorrow,’ she said, and Flynt wished she had worded it differently.

‘I’d be delighted,’ he forced out, his heart sinking, and Linse laughed outright.

‘I bet you would. Whatever you’re up to tomorrow, be back here by sunset.’

‘You wouldn’t want to be late,’ Bear added.

‘Right,’ Flynt agreed.

The warriors moved off down the hall, stalking like mountain cats, and Flynt watched them go until they vanished up a staircase.

‘I really don’t know what to make of those two,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I have to ask Bear what he remembers about taking the castle, and I’m not looking forward to it.’

‘Ah, they aren’t so bad when Erryan’s not around. Linse is actually very funny,’ Quiline said. ‘Your biggest problem is going to be getting five words in a row out of Bear, to be honest.’

‘So long as it’s not getting his axe out of my spine I’ll be grateful,’ Flynt muttered, and Quiline laughed.

‘He won’t kill you unless Erryan says so.’

Flynt sighed. ‘Why is it that no one in this place understands how to be reassuring?’ he asked dryly.

Quiline just snorted again. ‘Try living here a while, you’ll see why,’ she said. 

Flynt already knew there was nothing funny about the threatening atmosphere of the keep, and he was mildly impressed that she could joke about it at all.

_You joke or you go mad,_ he thought, long familiar with that method of keeping himself sane through particularly awful cases. He was lucky that Rosyr could appreciate that kind of pitch-black humour, and he wondered if Quiline had someone she could joke with. Maybe it was Linse, as frightening as that thought was.

‘Shall we carry on, or have they scared the curiosity out of you for today?’ Quiline asked archly, when Flynt had stood silently for a touch too long.

‘Yes, yes, let’s go,’ Flynt said, starting forward at once. She was mocking him, but she wasn’t far wrong. Flynt was more than ready to be done with his explorations for the day. He needed to get out of the oppressive keep and think things through. 

There was no chance that Erryan wouldn’t ask what he had been doing, and he needed to decide what he actually wanted to tell the king at supper. He didn’t think that there was any need to outright lie, but he was inclined to keep as much of what Quiline had showed him to himself as possible, feeling as though it would betray her grudging trust to do otherwise.

The cellar was under the kitchen, a vast space that underpinned almost the entire spread of the keep. There were smaller sections walled off for certain supplies, and thick stone columns dotted through the rest to support the incredible weight of stone above. It resembled nothing so much as a maze, and Flynt could easily believe that any number of hidden passages were lost among the dimlit ranks of barrels, sacks and boxes.

Quiline led the way unfailingly, their little lamps pools of light in the almost complete darkness. The noise of the kitchen above cut off as soon as they moved away from the stairs, and their footsteps seemed very loud in the still cellar.

‘Where did that other passage come out?’ Flynt asked quietly, hushed by the silence. He didn’t have a clue where he would find the tuns of oil relative to the door.

‘Over there,’ Quiline said, pointing back through the gloom towards the north-west corner. She didn’t move towards it, however, going instead to the southern side, between two walled-in spaces. 

There was a wide door in the outer wall of the cellar, almost hidden by stacks of split logs waiting to fuel the kitchen fires. It looked as though it opened away from them, but when Flynt pushed at it, there wasn’t even a trace of movement. He would have to move aside half a ton of wood just to see if the door even opened.

‘There was a brewery on the hillside that supplied the castle until it wasn’t big enough to keep up with demand any more,’ Quiline explained. ‘This passage goes down through the hill, using some of the wider caves. They used to roll the barrels up it, so it’s a pretty smooth slope all the way.’

‘What’s at the other end now?’

‘The brewery is still there. I’ve never used it myself, but the passage is meant to come out in the barrel store.’

‘If it’s still open, what makes this passage secure?’ Flynt asked.

‘Nothing, except that no one knows about it,’ Quiline said. ‘It’s been over a century since that brewery last delivered barrels to the castle. The entrance is a locked door behind decades of accumulated trash, and I’d be surprised if anyone working there now has even seen it. As risks to the castle go, it’s not one that keeps me awake at night.’

Flynt could accept that. Both ends of the tunnel seemed to have been forgotten, and there had to be a dozen more likely ways for someone with bad intentions to get in.

‘Was there a timber pile in front of the door ten years ago?’

Quiline just looked at him as though he was slow in the head.

‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘Why would I remember that?’

‘I was just asking for the sake of thoroughness,’ Flynt said. ‘Never mind. Thank you for your help today.’

Quiline huffed. ‘Should I expect the dubious pleasure of your company tomorrow as well?’

‘I don’t think so, but I’ll see you at supper,’ Flynt said.

‘I can’t wait,’ Quiline said flatly.

Flynt just smiled, unable to tell if she was joking or not.

‘Thank you,’ he said again, and left the cellar as swiftly as he could, leaving Quiline standing in her own little pool of lamplight.

He snuffed out his lamp and left it by the top of the stairs. 

He didn’t want to have to unroll the maps in order to find his way out of the keep, but thankfully there was a door in the kitchen for the cooks to bring supplies in and out. There were only two people working in the huge room, and only a small, blocked off section of the long hearth was lit. 

With the guards mostly quartered in their barracks, there was almost no one living in the keep save the servants who kept the place running, and it had been built to accommodate far larger numbers. There were no esteemed guests from other lands or from the powerful families of Alcanar, no visiting scholars come to use the libraries, and no royal family beyond Erryan himself. It was no wonder the halls felt so empty.

_Can’t really blame people for staying away,_ Flynt thought. _If I’d a choice, I wouldn’t be visiting either._

The kitchen door let out directly into the gardens, and the sudden sunlight set him squinting and shielding his eyes after so long in dim lamp light. He walked swiftly through the gardens, making his way round to the main gate, and felt a great weight lift off his shoulders as soon as he was out on the open hillside.

~

With so much to consider, a few libations seemed to be in order, so Flynt stopped at a tavern on the edge of his home district. The tight crush of people was a comfort after the cold confines of long-forgotten stone passages, heat and light and noise helping to drive away the silence of the keep.

He kept the maps close, swinging them round to lie across his chest rather than setting them down. Quiline had said they didn’t show much detail, but he still didn’t want to risk her wrath if he let them be stolen.

Settling in a corner with a jug of corn beer and a plate of hot quinoa with mushrooms and peppers, he pondered everything Quiline had shown him. 

The architect herself was still something of a mystery; he found it hard to discern from moment to moment whether she was actually angry or darkly amused, and the callous way she had spoken of the castle’s fall didn’t match the glimpses of restrained emotion he had caught from her in her rooms and in the gallery. 

He didn’t think she was loyal enough to Erryan to report everything they had said and done, especially given her protectiveness of her castle, but he also didn’t want to put her in the position of having to lie to the king to back up his report.

That was the crux of the matter; what would he tell Erryan? He suspected that Fray might have lived, and knew a few ways that the Lanoso family might all have left the keep, but the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t want to tell Erryan anything that might help him find them. 

The eerie, oppressive atmosphere in the keep had hit him hard, and he was uneasy about using his flair in Erryan’s service. In his mind, the mad king was not the kind of person he had been meant to help, and if there really was rebellion stirring, Flynt thought he might rather it succeeded. The only difficulty was being stuck in the middle when it happened. 

He didn’t doubt that Erryan would torture and kill him if his investigation did not progress as expected, so he was faced with delaying and obfuscating as much as he could without seeming to do so. In addition to that, his own curiosity had been piqued. He might not want to lead Erryan to the missing family, but he certainly wanted to find them for his own satisfaction.

_Typical bloody stupid thieftaker,_ he chided himself, swallowing the last of his beer. _Can’t keep your nose out even when it’d be far easier. It’ll be a nightmare to find the Lanosos, and doubly difficult to do it without telling Erryan._

He sat a while longer, thinking out a narrative that would satisfy Erryan without telling him everything that Quiline had shared. 

_It’s only been a couple of days, and the trail couldn’t be colder. Surely he can’t expect much progress yet?_ he thought, even as an unhelpful little voice pointed out that he was expecting logic and compassion from a madman. _Lares, I’m so screwed..._

He trudged home, sick of the whole business, and pored over Quiline's maps for a while, trying to make sense of the keep. It was too chaotic a space for him to plot any kind of clear picture of Fray's possible movements in his mind. Eventually, he gave up and fell into an exhausted sleep, half wishing that the dawn would never come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which is worse; spending the day surrounded by skeletons, or eating dinner with the king? It's a harder choice than it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had no responses to the last two chapters, but I hope someone is still reading this!

The following morning, determined to avoid the keep for as long as possible, Flynt focused his attention on the city instead. Quiline had shown him how the royal family might have left the castle, but there was a world of difference between escaping the keep and disappearing into history without a trace. Starting at the exit points of each of the passageways, he tried to envision where they would have gone next.

For the passage that let out into the river, the answer was obvious enough. The waterway was thick with small trading boats, and almost all of them would take passengers downriver to the Gap, or south to Lake Verny for the right price. However, the chances of finding one particular boat moored in Ciquade on any given day were slim, and he was certain that even if a trader had helped the royals and remembered them as anything but ordinary passengers, they wouldn’t tell him. 

The half-criminal river traders were prickly as cacti to prying city guards and thieftakers alike, bound by codes of silence and personal allegiance, and he could easily waste every gem he had in bribes and get no information in return. He had enough trouble dealing with them on fresh cases, so asking after ten years would be worse than useless.

The tunnel into the catacomb was more interesting. He found the place easily enough, asking around near the foot of the hill until he heard tell of a haunted villa where no one in the area would set foot. Not everyone whose bones rested in the catacomb beneath had died well, and ghosts formed from both lingering grief and endless rage were known to roam its halls. Flynt had no love of ghosts, but in his experience they were much less of a threat than anything living, and he certainly feared them less than Erryan’s horrific visions.

There were several livery stables in the surrounding area where the Lanosos might have got horses, or even rented a carriage, but there was no telling if they had done so. The sheer length of years since their disappearance made Flynt’s work almost impossible. With so little information to be found in the stables, he turned to the passageway itself, barely holding out hope for some trace in the rock. 

There was an iron gate in the garden of the villa that led down into the tomb, and it shrieked with rust when he pushed it open. There was no lock keeping people out; for most, the ghosts would be deterrent enough, and even if someone did go in, there was nothing inside that the living would miss. 

Quiline had said that the place had been full for a hundred years, so it was unsurprising that there was no charnel smell when he descended into the gloom, a burning lamp in his hand. Everything that stank would long since have rotted, leaving dry bones and stale, dusty air. 

Stacks of bones lined the walls, looming up out of the dark, carved names and wishes for peaceful rest etched into the rock around them. The tomb was enormous, thousands of disassembled skeletons crammed into niches hollowed out of the natural caves, and Flynt knew it might take some time to find where the route to the keep let out. 

He had been searching for long enough for the stairwell to the surface to be lost behind him when he heard the faint sound of sobbing ahead.

An instinctive thrill of fear ran up his spine, but he controlled himself, walking on through the dark. The sobbing grew louder, and the light of his lamp revealed the huddled figure of a child, sitting crouched between two niches filled with tiny bones. The child did not look up as he drew nearer, and when Flynt steeled himself and walked through it, the ghost vanished.

Flynt shook himself, his skin crawling with the sudden cold, and kept walking. Distressing as their tears could be, he would gladly take sad ghosts over angry ones that lashed out at him.

The natural passages twisted and wove unpredictably, but Flynt kept to the left and only took the left-hand way whenever there was a choice, hoping that would be enough to help him keep his bearings.

There was absolute silence so deep underground, and his own breathing sounded unnaturally loud with nothing else to mask it. He moved slowly and methodically, his feet making almost no sound, looking carefully at the walls on both sides in the little pool of lamplight. He was expecting the cave from the keep to let into the catacomb somewhere near its deepest point, but he didn’t want to miss it if the caves happened to join unexpectedly. 

Endless stacks of bones rose up on either side, with the occasional mild shock of a mound of skulls staring back at him out of the dark. Hundreds of empty eye-sockets watched him critically as he passed, and he could only hope that there were no other ghosts that would be roused by his presence.

He heard the faintest hint of a voice up ahead and stopped for a moment, ears straining. He didn’t expect to find anyone living in the tomb, but it wouldn’t be the first time that thieves and bandits had used such a place. One hand went instinctively to the bone hilt of his dagger – oddly fitting for his location – and he crept carefully forward to the next fork in the passage.

He had time for a glimpse of a waiting figure, then the man lunged at him, eyes wide and staring, his neck a gaping red ruin. The ghost let out a terrible, gurgling scream, setting Flynt’s ears ringing in the silence.

Flynt stabbed out with his dagger, pure reaction rather than reason, and the ghost split around the steel, turning to vapour with a piercing howl.

Flynt stood, his chest heaving with the shock, his hands shaking, and waited until the awful noise had stopped echoing through the cave, bouncing and rebounding off the rocky walls.

 _Fucking ghosts,_ he thought. _Get over it and go back to the Lar where you belong._

The bones here were far too old to belong to anyone he had killed, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if, somewhere, there were ghosts left by the murderers he had fought. Not all of them had died as cleanly as Masie Logwood’s killer, and their violent natures and resentful anger were the perfect fuel for ghosts. Even knowing that they couldn’t hurt him, Flynt had no desire to ever meet a ghost that he had personally created.

‘Go back to sleep, you fuckers,’ he murmured into the renewed silence, shaking himself forcefully to ease the crawling of his skin. His heartbeat was a too-swift pounding against the skin of his throat, and he swallowed convulsively against the feeling of his own fear.

When he felt like he could walk without tripping over his own feet, he carried on down the left-hand fork, resenting how his shock-shaky hands made the lamplight tremble.

There was no way to judge time save the almost imperceptible decline of the oil in his lamp, but he was sure that he had been searching for hours, winding through miles of tunnels, before he discovered an exit from the catacomb. It was little more than a fissure in the rock, just wide enough to pass through if he turned side-on, and he would have missed it if he hadn’t been specifically looking.

He stopped and examined the ground minutely, looking for footprints in the bone dust, traces of blood, anything that would indicate that anyone had passed this way, especially the injured king. There was no old blood, but plenty of scuff-marks from feet of different sizes. 

There was barely enough air movement in the tomb to keep the air breathable, certainly not enough for a breeze to disturb the dust, and it was near impossible to judge the age of any of the prints. They could have been there ten years or a day, and the dust would most likely look the same. All he could say for sure was that the tunnel had seen plenty of use at some point in the past, perhaps before the staircase had been closed off by the expansion of the portrait gallery.

Flynt slipped through the fissure and found himself in a low-roofed cave. He followed it a little way, finding that it sloped steeply upwards, and in a few places he had to climb through smaller gaps where the rock hadn’t been evenly worn away by the long-dried river that had formed the network of caves. It was accessible enough for a single person, but he could see why no one had attempted to expand the tomb into this cave. It would have taken more effort to open it up than it was worth for so little space.

He made it all the way to the bottom of the staircase which Quiline had shown him without finding any certain trace that the Lanosos had passed through, and then faced an unexpected dilemma. It would be far quicker and easier to enter the keep this way, but he didn’t want to risk someone noticing that he hadn’t come in through one of the gates. 

If he meant to keep Quiline’s confidence, exposing the passage through his own carelessness would be a critical mistake. As arduous as it was, and as much as he dreaded the idea of another walk through the ghost-infested darkness, he had to return all the way down the hill and through the catacomb.

‘Well, shit,’ he said on a heavy sigh, then turned and began the long, long walk out.

~

He had entered the tomb in the early morning, but it was late afternoon by the time he got out, shaken and dusty, blinking owlishly after the long darkness. Most of the ghosts had kept to themselves, but the crying child had been persistent, popping up several times on the way out, and the sobbing had worn terribly on his nerves. 

As soon as got up the stairs to the rusted gate and saw how low the sun had sunk in the sky, he cursed aloud. He would have to rush to make it to the keep before sunset, and he would arrive in a far more frazzled state than he would have liked.

He made it up the hill just in time, and the guards at the gate recognised him, letting him in without trouble.

Rather than risk getting hopelessly lost looking for a washroom in the keep, he ducked into the barracks on his way through the grounds, making use of the common baths to at least get rid of the top layer of grime. If any of the guards there minded, none of them said so, just watching him with side-long curiosity as he rushed to fill a basin at the pump. 

He stripped out of his shirt and flapped it, getting out a good portion of the greyish dust. Silk was useful because few things would stick to it, but his trousers were wool, and though he brushed them down as best he could, his escapades underground had ensured that they would bear traces of dirt no matter what he did.

 _If he wants presentable guests, he shouldn’t go inviting a common bloody thieftaker in the middle of a case,_ he thought, splashing water in all directions as he washed the dust and sweat from his face and chest as quickly as he could.

He dumped the dirty water down the drain, dragged his shirt over his damp chest and hastened out, arriving at the keep just as the sun slid below the horizon. It was only when he paused in the entrance hall that he realised he had no idea where the king’s supper would be served.

He turned to one of the guards stationed inside the door. 

‘Do you know where –’

‘There you are,’ a woman’s deep voice interrupted. 

He looked round and saw Quiline standing in the west hallway. She beckoned for him to follow and he went, relieved to see that she was still wearing her charcoal-stained long coat, so apparently his plain clothes wouldn’t be too out of place.

They walked swiftly down the corridor and round a corner, entering a small, square room with a surprisingly intimate table, and a young woman sitting on a stool in one corner, a set of cane pipes in her hands. Clearly, this wasn’t to be the kind of large formal gathering Flynt had envisioned when he contemplated supper with the king.

_Makes sense, I suppose. There can’t be enough people in this whole place to fill a banquet hall, even if he decided to invite every guard and gardener here._

Flynt was late enough that three of the six seats at the table were already filled, but to his relief Erryan had not yet arrived. The large chair at the head of the table was obviously reserved for the king, and Flynt’s heart sank when Quiline waved him into the empty seat beside it. He had no desire to be any closer to Erryan than absolutely necessary.

The party was small; Flynt and Quiline, Bear and Linse, and a slender blond man whom Quiline introduced as Captain Vystar Quartz, in charge of the wall-top guards. He seemed young for the role, but there was a strange shine to Vystar’s blue eyes, like a cat’s eyes caught in torchlight, and Flynt suspected he saw more than he should. He had been told that some of the wall guards had vision flairs, and it made sense that their captain would have some kind of enhanced sight.

Bear had shrugged off his ever-present skin, laying it over his chair so that the snarling head hung down behind him. Flynt had never seen him without it, and he suddenly looked a great deal younger, his hair a mess of tight auburn curls that had been crushed flat to his skull, but sprung up at once when Linse ruffled them fondly. 

Bear just scowled and allowed her ministrations, apparently used to her teasing nature. The more he saw of them, the more Flynt realised the type of bond that existed between them; it was more than that they both served Erryan, they were a true pair. He wondered if he would get a chance to ask how they had met.

Erryan swept in not two minutes after Flynt had taken his place, and everyone stood at once.

‘Do keep your seats,’ the king invited, settling in his own deeply cushioned chair with the same kind of loose posture he had shown on the throne. If his warriors were like mountain cats, he was like their desert counterparts, loose limbed and lazy with heat, but still entirely deadly when roused.

Flynt sat uneasily beside him, staring at the empty table and steeling himself for a very difficult evening.

The table did not stay empty for long. Erryan’s arrival set off a chain of servants bringing dishes of food and pitchers of drink, pouring clear water and sweet red wine into the fine glasses set at each place.

‘I hope you have worked up an appetite with your investigation,’ Erryan said, leaning uncomfortably close to Flynt.

In truth, the hours in the dark and haunted tunnels had left him feeling mildly sick, too unsettled to feel the hunger of a long day’s exploration, but he didn’t dare explain as much to the king.

‘I am honoured to have been invited, sire,’ he said instead, eyeing the plate of finely sliced meats and fruits that had been set before him. He suspected that it would be the first of many courses. The boyish roundness of Erryan’s face said that he enjoyed his food, and no one would expect a king to eat anything but the best.

Flynt was more used to famine than to feast, for all that he never lacked for gems. His work tended towards long days and a significant amount of travelling, not always in hospitable areas. He made do with whatever was in his saddlebag, and if a chase went on longer than expected he might try to hunt if there was anything around worth eating. The desert of Fornale had always been the worst place for hunting down his quarry; some areas were so dry and barren that even the people who lived there could find nothing to eat or drink.

Flynt was jerked from a memory of coming very close to dying of thirst in the sandy waste when Erryan spoke to him again.

‘Tell me, what have you discovered?’

He reached convulsively for his wine, his mouth dry with the memory and his nervousness, and took a large gulp before replying.

‘Very little, sire, I regret to say. I have found no trace to prove whether Fray lived, but I still think it most likely that he didn’t. You said yourself that he was grievously wounded, and it would have been harder for his family to get out if he was with them. I also have no certain answer as to how the family left the keep. The gate was breached, and no doubt there was a lot of confusion. There are a lot of livery stables in this city with short memories, and I’ve dealt with river traders before; if they left by boat you wouldn’t have got an answer about it the very next day, never mind ten years later. I need to speak with Bear tomorrow, to try and get a clearer idea of the battle. None of the guards I’ve spoken with were here back then.’

It was nonsense, or as good as, a few scraps of almost unrelated information presented as though they were significant. Flynt didn’t want to mention Quiline or the passages at all if he could help it – though he was sure that Bear and Linse had reported that the two of them had been lurking around the keep together.

Erryan regarded him closely, his bottomless blue eyes fixed unblinking on Flynt’s face, and for a horrible moment Flynt thought the mad king was about to unleash some new horror on his mind.

 _He knows, he knows there’s more you could say and you aren’t,_ Flynt thought desperately.

However, Erryan just held the stare a breath longer and then hummed to himself. ‘I suppose it has only been a few days,’ he said mildly. ‘Keep looking, thieftaker.’

‘I will, sire,’ Flynt said at once, almost tripping over his words in his haste to speak.

Erryan nodded and focused his attention on his food. At first, Flynt didn’t trust that he had been invited for the sake of such a short conversation, but Erryan said nothing else about it, turning instead to engage Captain Vystar in a much friendlier discussion about cutting back the scrub around the castle wall.

Flynt met Quiline’s eye and found her entirely blank, neither concern nor camaraderie in her gaze. Clearly, long years of Erryan’s rule had made her adept at keeping her thoughts to herself at need. There was apparently nothing further to do than try and enjoy the admittedly excellent food despite the weight of Erryan’s company.

The piper played smoothly as they ate, one course melting seamlessly into another, but there were beads of sweat on her brow that the room wasn’t warm enough to explain, and she flinched slightly when Erryan’s carefree laughter was too loud.

Flynt could understand exactly how she felt. His every waking hour in the castle was a demonstration of his skills, and if the king disliked his performance, the consequences would undoubtedly be very unpleasant. 

It was a strange meal in many ways; the fear of King Erryan was a heavy, unspoken weight in Flynt’s thoughts, an unforgettable presence at his side, but the man himself was nothing short of charming. When his conversation with Vystar was concluded, he immediately engaged the group with a tale of his childhood in Parela. 

‘When we were a little older there was nothing we liked more than racing real boats just off the beach,’ he said, after a lengthy description of the tiny model boats that he had made with friends when he was very young. The light-stemmed plants they used were apparently much like the scrub growing in the castle ditch, which had sparked his chain of memory.

‘I remember once we got too ambitious and raced out into the deeper water. There were trading ships everywhere, and the waves were too big for our little boats, but we were all too proud and too reckless to turn for home first and concede the race,’ he spoke lightly, a little smile on his lips as though the memory was a fond one. 

‘Naturally, I wouldn’t turn back before the rest, but I could see that we were only getting deeper into danger. The only way to win was to scare the rest into turning, so I gave one of the boys the idea that there was a giant, hideous shark coming for his boat,’ Erryan said delightedly, laughing at his own childish cleverness. ‘You should have heard him scream,’ he said, still chuckling. ‘I’ve never seen anyone tack so fast, and of course once one of us turned back, the rest could follow. I don’t remember the boy’s name, but I know he never came sailing with us after that.’

The party laughed along with the king, but Flynt could feel the darker undercurrent to the story. Perhaps he had kept them out of trouble by forcing the race back toward the shore, but at what cost? Even as a boy, Erryan hadn’t seen anything wrong with frightening someone so badly that they gave up something they had loved, and it was clear that he looked back on the incident with amusement, not remorse. There was something deeply wrong with his moral compass.

The king told other stories, in between Linse or Vystar telling their own, and some were tinged with threat and others weren’t, but it seemed that Erryan genuinely couldn’t see a difference between them. The other guests seemed more used to his skewed perception, and words flowed surprisingly easily around the table. Flynt soon realised that Erryan’s small suppers with his inner-circle must be common; he was the only one who hadn’t shared a table with the king before, and he was far more nervous than the rest as a result.

Erryan laughed frequently and without malice, particularly at Linse’s surprisingly filthy jokes, and it would have been easy to think that he was entirely harmless, if Flynt hadn’t known better. Bear was largely silent, replying in short bursts when someone spoke directly to him, and never venturing a comment unless it was required. Quiline was as cutting and quick as she had been on their tour of the keep, though Flynt noticed that she blunted her tongue when it came to the king. Captain Vystar was good company, almost always smiling, and he took no offence when Flynt asked about his eyes.

‘I can see heat,’ he said. ‘I came from the high mountains, and it was always useful for finding my family’s flock in the snow.’

‘But it’s more useful for spotting enemies?’ Flynt guessed.

Vystar laughed. ‘If I see one, I’ll let you know. I mostly use it to find hidden guards trying to sneak a nap on watch.’

It seemed strange that an unbloodied youth was a captain, but it reminded Flynt that, for all the tension within the walls, the castle was technically at peace. 

Ciquade hadn’t come under attack since Erryan had taken the crown. There were a few veterans who had helped him to take it, but the rest of the castle guards were youngsters who were well trained but had never seen a real fight in their lives. If the green-clad bandits were as much of a threat as Erryan thought, Flynt wondered if it would stay that way. 

The piper in the corner played a warlike trill as his thoughts turned to a possible conflict, and Flynt smiled genuinely for perhaps the first time that day, amused by the coincidence.

Unfortunately, his sudden smile drew Erryan’s attention.

‘Is something amusing?’ the king asked, turning his gaze expectantly to Flynt.

Flynt froze, caught out by his own train of thought.

‘Not amusing, sire, but pleasant. Your piper is very good,’ he said, as calmly as he could.

The king hadn’t previously paid any attention to the musician in the corner, seeming to accept the music as a routine part of any good meal, and he appeared surprised by the reminder that there was a person working hard to make it.

Erryan hummed, cocking his head as he looked at the poor woman, apparently weighing up whether or not the quiet performance had been adequate.

‘She isn’t mine, but yes, perhaps I will have her entertain me again. It can be so hard to keep good musicians,’ Erryan said with a sigh. 

Flynt saw the woman’s eyes widen, and wished suddenly that he hadn’t mentioned her. She was nervous enough as it was, and more attention from the king was never a good thing. It was too late to undo his mistake; Erryan’s thoughts were fixed on her.

‘You can recite, can’t you Captain?’ he said to Vystar. ‘I’m in just the mood for an old story.’

‘I can claim a little skill there,’ Vystar conceded, ducking his head modestly.

‘Tell me, piper, do you know the backing for the Lay of Ashes?’ the king asked.

The woman paused in her playing, taking the reed pipes from her lips with obvious reluctance. When she spoke, her voice was faint and unsure, utterly unlike her music.

‘Forgive me, sire, the title isn’t familiar,’ she whispered. Erryan frowned, and she rushed to continue. 

‘But tunes may have many names. Does this one have another?’

‘I don’t recall, but the music goes like this,’ Erryan said.

Flynt expected him to hum a tune, but he heard nothing until the musician gave a sudden, faint cry.

Flynt flinched in his seat, moved to action but unable to find any threat he could face. It was clear that Erryan’s flair was at work, but what could he do?

The musician’s face went pale as Erryan forced the tune into her mind.

‘I – I know it,’ she croaked after a moment.

Erryan smiled beatifically, clapping his hands together.

‘I’m glad we could sort that out,’ he said. ‘If you would favour us with a few verses, Captain?’

Vystar nodded at once, and waited expectantly for his accompaniment to start.

The musician sat frozen for a moment longer, her chest heaving, and Flynt’s heart ached for her. It might have been more benign than his own experience with Erryan’s flair, but it was a violation nonetheless. The shock of it would take far longer to fade than she had to spare, with the king waiting impatiently for her to play.

Flynt waited, his throat dry with fear, and his relief when she breathed deeply and raised her pipes again was almost crippling.

She played well despite her fear, notes smooth and low for Vystar’s voice to match.

‘In Alcanar in days of old  
Were builders, warriors, brave and bold  
Who forged a path between the trees  
And brought the dryads to their knees,  
But men can only hold so strong  
And they had journeyed far too long.  
In summer’s growth their path was lost,  
Then came the night, then came the cost...’

The story was a long one, detailing the fight to establish roads and villages all the way to the western ocean, and the eventual, inevitable tragedy when the fast-growing forest cut off the roadmakers. The dryads’ hold over the trees could not be broken, even by a desperate final stand that burned a hundred miles of forest.

Vystar’s voice was sure as he recited, and Flynt relaxed a little in listening, letting the cadence lull him. Even the shaken musician seemed to find solace in familiarity, accompanying the twists of the narrative with music that changed a little with every verse, and Flynt was sorry when the tale ended prematurely.

Erryan stood abruptly, bringing player and speaker stuttering to a halt.

‘I am fatigued,’ he declared. ‘Carry on without me, if you wish.’

With that, he bade them all goodnight and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving Flynt confused and unmoored in his wake.

‘Is that normal?’ he asked Vystar.

The young captain seemed remarkably calm about having his storytelling interrupted.

‘Normal enough,’ Vystar said placidly. ‘Why should he stay longer than he wishes?’

The party broke up swiftly after that, Vystar escorting the musician out as he went to make an inspection of the walls. She seemed desperately relieved to be able to leave, and Flynt wondered if she would disappear so as to avoid a second summons to the castle. It was easy for musicians to travel, and almost any venue must be preferable to Erryan’s court.

 _I hope she leaves Ciquade tonight and never looks back,_ Flynt thought, wishing he could do the same. He would have liked to tell her to run, but with Erryan’s friends around he didn’t dare.

The only person he felt he could trust at all was Quiline, and he hurried to follow her from the table, catching her just before she disappeared into her rooms.

‘I’m curious about what this place used to be like,’ he said. ‘I know it can’t always have been so subdued. It’s just a request, not a thieftaker’s demand, but will you tell me a little more about the keep under Fray’s rule?’

Quiline gave him a searching look, but she didn’t seem openly hostile. The fact that his sparse report to Erryan had left out so many of the secrets she had revealed must have proven to her that he was at least partially trustworthy.

‘I have some old drawings that might interest you,’ she said at last, and gestured for him to follow her inside.

‘Pour us both a drink, if you’re staying,’ Quiline commanded, waving him towards a decanter of some pale golden liquor while she went to her meticulously ordered shelves.

Flynt hastened to do as she said, finding that the liquor smelled strongly of pineapple. The first sip proved it to be pineapple brandy, sweet and hot in his throat, and he savoured its relaxing effect as Quiline pulled down a large sheaf of loosely bound parchment.

‘There used to be an artist at court, back when there was more of a court to speak of’ she said, setting the folder on the table and taking her drink from him. ‘He painted formal portraits, of course, but those were few and far between, and he liked to stay occupied. Most of his work was little vignettes of everyday things. Most of them are archived somewhere in the library now, but I kept a few of my favourites.’

‘He gave them to you?’

Quiline shook her head. ‘Not as such, but when he died a few years ago no one cared where his smaller works went.’

‘He died?’ Flynt asked gently, curious, but not wanting to push a painful subject.

To his surprise Quiline smiled. ‘Of old age, the lucky prick. I swear he was ancient when I was a girl, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected. Not everything is a violent tragedy, much though it sometimes seems so around here.’

She opened the folder and spread a score of sketches across the table. Most were charcoal, with a few touches of watercolour to highlight a face or a blossoming tree, but two or three were fully coloured. 

The first thing that struck Flynt was that every person in the drawings was smiling, even the cook rolling pastry, her cheeks painted with a faint brush of pink. There was a small boy peeking over the table edge beside her, frozen in the act of reaching for the offcuts of dough, his tongue peeking between his teeth in concentration. Perhaps the cook’s fond smile had been the artist’s rosy recollection, not the truth, but even so it was an immediate sign of something missing – there were no children in the keep any more.

An uncoloured drawing of a young woman crouched beside a sapling caught his eye, and he pulled it free of the rest, recognising something about the slender figure.

‘Is this Talon?’

Quiline nodded. ‘Not long after she first came here, I think. She was always in the orchard, that never changed, but she looks younger in that drawing than any other.’

Flynt wondered if that was why Quiline had chosen to keep it, or if it was the look of peace on Talon’s face that she liked.

‘What’s the oldest picture here?’ he asked.

‘Probably this one,’ Quiline said, tapping a finger on one of the full-colour paintings. The throne room was recognisable by the massive hardwood chair that Erryan still used, but the rest of the scene was entirely unlike the bare, empty space Flynt had seen. There was a second seat beside the throne, and long tables filled with brightly dressed guests lined one wall of the room. 

Figures were dancing across the stone floor, flowing cloaks and skirts no more than swipes of green and blue that gave the impression of life and movement. The familiar throne was occupied by a dark-haired woman, the golden crown shining on her brow, and her hand rested lightly over the noticeable swell of her belly. A man sat in the second chair beside her, no crown on his head, his face tilted up towards the queen as though hanging on her every word.

‘That’s Queen Finn, Fray’s mother, at the feast they hosted to announce that she was carrying an heir. My father said there was a week of celebration then, and another week when Fray was born healthy. Musicians and tumblers and storytellers came from all three isles to entertain the court, and years later, he still remembered those days as some of the best he had seen here.’

‘Did Fray throw parties for his children’s births, too?’

Quiline smiled. ‘Oh yes. I remember those ones myself. I thought once or twice that we could have tipped Fray up and used him as a wine barrel, he was so full of the stuff. That was before Val was born; he had grown up a little, calmed down by the time Cetine came along, though not by as much as you might think. There were so many musicians in the keep in the month after Cetine’s birth that you could hear music in every room, never mind how thick the walls are.’

‘Poor Talon,’ Flynt said, but Quiline waved his sympathy away.

‘Rubbish, she loved music. Fray wouldn’t have kept the players around if she didn’t want them there. The rest of us, of course, got used to sleeping with pillows clamped over our ears,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘It’s hard to imagine,’ Flynt admitted. ‘When I think of this keep, I think of silence.’

Quiline pursed her lips, staring down at the pictures of a time long since lost. Her shoulders were set, and Flynt couldn’t read her expression, but he would have given a great deal to hear her true thoughts at that moment.

‘It’s been silent a long time,’ she said at last.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynt's dreams are troubled, and speaking with Bear is unlikely to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't seem slow to read. The nature of a mystery like this means there's a lot of talking to do.

It was very late when Flynt left the keep. Quiline had offered him one of the many empty rooms for the night, but he could think of nothing he wanted less than to stay in that oppressive place. 

He trekked back to Rosyr’s shop instead, finding him busy with a bloody-faced customer despite the hour. It was probably an injury picked up in some tavern brawl, but he didn’t interfere, waving vaguely at Rosyr as he walked straight through to his room and sprawled face-first on the welcoming bed.

He jerked awake in the early hours of the morning, his throat raw and his muscles aching, and for a long moment the nightmare lingered vividly behind his eyes, visions of Erryan’s terrible spiders hunting him through the dark catacomb.

When he finally blinked them away, focusing on the grey, dawnlit room, he found Rosyr waiting, a steaming cup in his hand. He must have been making enough noise in the dream that his long-suffering friend had come to wake him. 

Rosyr was still fully dressed, and the bags under his eyes were so deep that Flynt would bet that he hadn’t slept at all, so at least he didn’t have to feel guilty for rousing him. Sometimes his friend’s odd hours were a blessing.

‘Sorry,’ he rasped out, but Rosyr just shook his head.

‘Compliments of Aunt Nerais,’ he said, pressing the warm drink into Flynt’s shaky hand.

Flynt took it instinctively, inhaling the familiar scent of bitter chocolate. When he took a sip the flavour of cocoa and hot spice burst on his tongue, taking his mind far from the cold tunnels under the city with memories of the ever-welcoming plantation he had so often visited with Rosyr.

‘You got a parcel?’ he said. 

He didn’t think Rosyr had taken the time to go back to his family home in months, and remembered him bemoaning his lack of cocoa. He could have bought it from any market, despite its cost, but it was never the same.

Rosyr nodded. ‘One of the cousins dropped by while you were off getting traumatised again.’

Flynt shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Of course you are,’ Rosyr said, heavy with sarcasm.

‘Spent most of the day in a ghost infested catacomb, then topped it off with supper with the mad king, that’s all,’ Flynt said, as flippantly as he could manage.

Rosyr just cursed quietly.

‘How’s the Brown family army coming along?’ Flynt asked, both out of genuine interest and for the change of subject. 

Like most common folk, the Brown family name came from some aspect of their lives, in this case the cocoa that they had grown for generations. Flynt’s own family name was more of a relic – none of them had mined coal since his grandparents left the mountains.

Rosyr made a face. ‘Still growing, apparently. There’s a new little cousin I’ve never met, so I ought to get over there soon.’

‘Let me know if you want company on the trip,’ Flynt said. Rosyr’s family might as well be his own, and he would enjoy going to visit them.

_If I can_ , he thought, with sudden frustration. _Fuck knows when this case will be done with._

Rosyr must have caught some trace of his thoughts on his face. He frowned.

‘I don’t usually interfere with your work, but I’ve got to say, I don’t like this case. I’ve seen so many brutal murders leave you less fucked in the head than this.’

Flynt laughed, the sound almost surprised out of him. ‘That makes two of us. Trust me, whenever Erryan lets me loose, I’m going to take a nice long break to get myself together again.’

Rosyr still didn’t look happy, but he nodded. ‘The Browns would welcome you with open arms, if you want to get out of Ciquade.’

‘Extra hands are always welcome,’ Flynt agreed, but both of them knew he was more to them than another labourer.

Flynt finished his cocoa and looked out of the latticed window. The sky was grey, dawnlight not yet given colour by the rising sun, but he didn’t think he would sleep again. A bare handful of hours would have to do.

‘The sooner I run out of leads here, the better,’ he said, throwing back the blanket. ‘I need to go and talk to Erryan’s personal attack dog.’ 

‘Sounds like another wonderful day.’

Flynt snorted at Rosyr’s dry tone. ‘Absolutely. And you should go to bed, you look like you’ve been punched in both eyes.’

‘I can make the look work for me,’ Rosyr said, striking a pose and fluttering his dark eyelashes.

Flynt just laughed at him.

~

He managed to maintain a relatively good mood all the way to the keep, though he wouldn’t count on it lingering once he was inside the walls. At the gate, he paused and asked the sleepy-looking guards where he might find Bear.

‘If it’s too early for him to be around, I’ll go and look into something else first,’ he said.

One of the guards shook her head. ‘Mornings begin early here. Bear will already be at the practice yard, I guarantee it.’

‘You mean the yard behind the barracks?’

The guard nodded.

Flynt followed the familiar route to the guards’ barracks, walking around the outside of the long building to the wide dirt yard between the barracks and the western curve of the wall, where a line of archery butts had been erected.

The swift hiss and thud of arrows alerted him before he could walk in front of the practising archers, and he changed his course to walk down the side of the range instead, hoping that none of them were poor enough shots to hit him.

The yard was busier than he had expected; multiple pairs of guards stripped to their undershirts, trading blows with wooden swords in what looked more like a stylised dance than actual combat. 

Some of the better fighters were moving faster, the swift clack-clack of swords ringing out as fast as hands beating on a drum, but all of them seemed amateurish in comparison to the pair of warriors who dominated the north end of the yard. 

Bear and Linse were facing off against a wave of guards, enemies rushing them in twos and threes and being swiftly repulsed. Their battle axe and long knives had been replaced with wooden facsimiles, but they barely seemed less dangerous for it. 

The guards they struck down rolled away and got to their feet to attack again, but many of them winced and took a moment to collect themselves before they pressed the attack once more. 

Unlike the pairs of guards practising their sword forms, everyone engaged in this rough mockery of combat was wearing leather armour on their chest and head to protect them from the bruising blows.

Flynt walked slowly across the practice yard, enthralled by the display the two were putting on. 

It was easy to see how they matched; Bear’s movements were larger, his heavy axe slower but longer reaching. There was a noticeable pause between effective strikes as he manoeuvred the weapon and built the destructive power for a full swing, and he would have been vulnerable to small, fast enemies if not for Linse. 

Anywhere that Bear wasn’t looking, Linse was, moving in short, nimble bursts to attack around his slower actions, stabbing out at enemies and covering his back and sides against them. 

It was a formidable combination, and though Flynt stood just out of the way and watched the group of guards come at them again and again, he never saw any of them land a strike with their own wooden swords.

There was a man with a bucket of water standing at the ready near the fight, and Flynt wondered why, until he saw Linse pluck one of the smaller firebird feathers off her armour. 

It was in her hand for only a moment, then it was gone, and a sudden bright flame burst between her fingers. Fire licked out at a guard who had been attempting to get behind her, finding purchase despite his armour.

He shrieked in surprise, leaping back, but before the flame could do real damage the waiting man had thrown the water over him, dousing the fire.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Linse called out, laughing as she did. 

The practice ground to a halt, and Flynt gathered by the disgruntled grumbling that Linse wasn’t supposed to use her flair in the bout.

_Good thing they were prepared for her to forget,_ he thought, impressed by the calm of the guards. Plainly, they were used to Linse instinctively reaching for every weapon she could, even in a bloodless practice.

_And what a weapon,_ Flynt thought, caught between discomfort and admiration. 

It was plain to see in their movements why Linse and Bear were a matched set, but it seemed that Linse might actually be the more dangerous of the two, despite her less intimidating appearance. 

Flairs which could do active harm in a fight were unusual, and Flynt certainly wouldn’t want to face a skilled warrior who could set him on fire if just stabbing him seemed too dull.

The group of guards broke up, leaving Bear and Linse together. 

Flynt noticed that the man who had been set on fire was picking at the blackened leather of his chest-piece and grumbling as he walked away. The damage from such a brief flame was impressive – Linse’s fire burned hot and fierce, like a dying firebird being reborn.

Flynt approached the warriors as they were exchanging wooden weapons for real ones, and Linse grinned widely when she saw him.

‘We wondered when you’d turn up,’ she said.

Flynt smiled. ‘I thought I was starting early, but it seems everyone is up with the sun here. Do you have some time, or is your practice not finished?’ he asked Bear.

‘We’re finished,’ Bear said shortly.

Linse laughed at his discontented tone. ‘We wouldn’t have been, but that’s my fault. People are such babies about a little bit of fire.’

‘I think I would be too,’ Flynt admitted. ‘Still, you were very impressive even before that. I didn’t see anyone land a blow on either of you.’

‘The day we can’t beat the guards is the day we die,’ Bear said flatly.

Flynt’s eyes widened a little. ‘Would Erryan have even you two killed for failing him?’

If they had been anyone else, he would have assumed the answer, but he had seen Erryan’s genuine affection for the two, Bear in particular.

Linse doubled over laughing. ‘Oh, Lares,’ she said between giggles. ‘I know he’s difficult, but you really think he’s a pure monster, if you jump straight to that. Bear meant that if we can’t beat the guards in training we’d be fucked in a real fight. If it came to that, we’d retire. I don’t _think_ Erryan would kill us for it.’

For all that she was laughing, she clearly wasn’t certain of Erryan’s reaction. It really was possible that the mad king would kill them rather than letting them leave his side.

Linse caught her breath as her giggles died away, and she waved a hand between Flynt and Bear. 

‘You two have a nice talk, I’m going to find some breakfast,’ she said, kissing Bear quickly and walking away.

Bear turned his full attention on Flynt and waited silently for his first question.

‘I need to know what you remember of the night you took the keep,’ Flynt began, speaking quickly so as not to lose his chance. ‘What can you tell me?’

Bear was quiet for a moment, as though reaching for memories he had long since packed away.

‘The main gate fell an hour after sunset,’ he said at last. ‘Before that, I was with Erryan, directing the ram. As soon as the inner gate was breached, Erryan ran for the keep, going to find the crown. He knew it was the way to win. I followed, but every guard he had disabled with his flair in passing was one I had to fight. It slowed me down, and when I got inside he was gone. I got lost in the keep, fighting anyone I saw in green, and I didn’t see Erryan again until at least midnight. He had the crown by then.’

‘You didn’t see any of the old royal family?’

Bear shook his head.

‘What about Fray? Erryan said he wounded him badly. Was there any trail of blood that you noticed near the throne room?’

Bear gave him a flat look, his brown eyes utterly empty. ‘There was hardly a floor or a wall in the keep that wasn’t bloodied. I wouldn’t have noticed.’

Flynt’s lip twisted, imagining the scene, the stink of gore that must have choked the stone corridors. 

It must have rivalled the worst of murders, but he was sure no case he had ever seen could have equalled the body count among Fray’s guards. If the young Bear had been half the warrior he had grown into, no one could have stood against him. His path through the keep would have run rivers of blood.

‘You must have been very young back then,’ Flynt said, trying to picture the stoic warrior as a blood-stained youth and finding it a grim picture. ‘How did it come about that you fought?’

‘I come from Levantar, like Erryan. We met when I was a boy, and I was with him long before we crossed the Gap. I knew how to fight, so why would he assault this place without me?’

Bear spoke without any surprise. It seemed that he really didn’t see any reason why being barely more than a boy should excuse him from taking part in such a slaughter.

_What kind of life has he had, if he’s known Erryan so long?_ Flynt wondered, but didn’t dare ask. 

He knew Linse hadn’t been with them when they took the keep, and he couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. Better, perhaps, that he have a partner who might have come to violence later than him, but certainly worse that he hadn’t had her support in the aftermath.

Bear and Erryan both came from Levantar, but Linse couldn’t have. Fire flairs only came from the Lares of Fornale, and firebirds only lived in the burning desert, so he was doubly sure that Linse must have been born in that arid land. 

Bear might have gone years with no one but Erryan for company before he met her.

‘How did you meet –’ he began, then shook his head. Better to keep to questions that directly related to his search. It would almost certainly be easier to ask Linse about their partnership anyway. ‘How did Erryan take the crown?’ he asked instead.

‘I wasn’t there,’ Bear said. ‘He said he disguised himself, took the crown before the king knew he was in danger, then cut him down.’

Flynt could believe as much; Erryan’s illusions were nothing if not disorientating. Even if Fray had been a great fighter, he wouldn’t have stood a chance with his own mind turned against him.

‘What happened after that?’ he asked, and knew, almost as he spoke, that the answer would be terrible.

‘We killed anyone in Fray’s green, and anyone with a weapon,’ Bear said, utterly without remorse or regret. ‘When we tore down the flag atop the keep and replaced it with Erryan’s banner, some of Fray’s guards threw down their arms, and some fought even harder. We killed both just the same. Most of the servants were in the dungeon, and we needed them after the fighting was done. If they swore allegiance we set them back to work.’

Flynt didn’t need to ask what had happened to those who wouldn’t bend the knee to Erryan.

‘Did any of the guards survive? Deserters, perhaps?’

‘Some, perhaps, from the walls where it was easier to escape. We weren’t looking outward at first, but I’m certain no one made it down the hill alive after we had the keep under control.’

‘Is it possible that Fray, Talon and their children were lost among the dead?’

‘Yes,’ Bear said. ‘I never saw children, but there were a lot of bodies. They’re all lumped in together on the hillside if you want to go searching for little bones.’

‘Erryan hasn’t had that done already?’ Flynt asked, breathing deeply to quell the rising horror of that idea.

‘No one disturbs bones,’ Bear said, and Flynt could only nod in agreement. 

Bones belonged to the Lar of the place where they lay, and even a man as frightening as Erryan would find it difficult to order anyone to dig up a mass grave. The anger of the castle’s Lar might be the only thing in the world the guards feared more than him. 

‘Thank you for your account,’ Flynt said, despite the fact that he could gladly have gone without hearing it. It was grim listening, and he wasn’t sure it had offered any new clues. ‘If you remember anything else I ought to hear, please find me.’

Bear just nodded, shouldered his axe and walked off after Linse, leaving Flynt deep in thought in the dusty yard. 

_No one got out down the hill, but perhaps they did through the passages,_ he thought. _If they were even still alive by then. Lares, what a horror this keep must have been that night..._

If the attackers had really killed everyone who stood against them, Talon’s chances of survival seemed bleak. Quiline had said that the queen was a capable fighter, and he couldn’t imagine that she wouldn’t have been part of the keep’s last defence.

If he assumed that Fray had died of the wounds Erryan inflicted, and Talon had fallen in the slaughter, that only left the two children, and it seemed impossible that they could have got out alone. 

The odds were that, if anyone would dare dig through the bones on the hill, they would find the smaller forms of the children tumbled in with the rest. 

Still, there was a slim chance; the guards stationed with Valaryan and Cetine would have been the most loyal, he was sure, and there was no telling, in that long-ago night of chaos, if they might have helped them get out. 

With so few survivors, the chances were high that their guards would have been killed in the fighting afterwards, taking the tale to the grave.

As if thinking her name had summoned her, Quiline stepped out of the barracks, stuffing her measuring tools back into the deep pockets of her coat. She saw Flynt and strode over to him, looking him up and down in a brisk but not unfriendly manner.

‘I saw Bear leaving, so I assume you spoke to him. Congratulations on still having your spine in its proper place,’ she said, with a quirk of her lips.

Flynt grinned, pleased that she would joke with him. ‘You aren’t rid of me yet, sorry.’

‘Pity,’ Quiline agreed. ‘Did you learn anything?’

‘Plenty, and most of it things I’d rather have done without,’ Flynt said, wrinkling his nose. ‘But I’m not sure any of it was useful. You might get rid of me after all – I think I’ve almost run out of ideas here.’

‘Where else will you go?’

‘Well, the bandits and the rumours behind them were what made Erryan summon me. Those trails will at least be less than ten years cold, even if no one involved will want to talk to me.’

‘No one here wanted to talk to you either, so that shouldn’t be too much of a shock.’

Flynt set a hand to his chest, mock-wounded by her barbed tongue. ‘Alas, thieftakers are eternally unpopular. I thank you for at least tolerating my company yesterday evening.’

Quiline hummed, dipping her chin in acknowledgement. She had seemed pleased to have someone to listen to stories of the keep when it had been full of people, full of life, though her tales had been halting at first. Flynt didn’t doubt that most of them had been buried for a long time. 

‘Perhaps, if you don’t die from asking too many questions, I’ll tolerate you again when you come back,’ she offered. ‘It’s nice that someone’s interested in the history of the place, anyway. Usually it’s best not to talk about it.’

Flynt smiled. ‘I mean to leave tomorrow, if Erryan lets me go, but with an offer like that, how could I fail to return?’

Quiline just nodded again, straightened her shoulders and strode off towards the keep without another word. 

Flynt couldn’t decide if she disliked farewells, or if she was simply done with the emotional honesty of the conversation. Quiline was hard to read, almost as repressed and subdued as the keep itself, and he could believe either answer. 

_She’s still here, and almost no one else is. She must’ve made some hard choices,_ he thought, and shook his head at the idea of her living through the massacre Bear had described. 

Neither one of them had detailed their own feelings on the matter, keeping their accounts dry and brief, but he thought perhaps their silence spoke volumes on its own.

~

He stopped on the way home to buy travel rations; dried smoked mutton, dried fruit and hard biscuits, as well as compressed balls of desiccated fish flakes and spices that made a decent soup when dropped into boiling water. 

There was no telling how long he would have to spend moving between towns and camping in the wilds, especially chasing bandits who would no doubt have their own secret camps in hard-to-find places. Long experience had taught him to bring as much preserved food on a search as he could.

His bag was still mostly packed from his aborted journey to Parela, and it was mostly a matter of tailoring its contents for his new destination. 

Out came the calpa-hair scarf, and in went bright glass beads for passage gifts and smoke bombs filled with cat-piss powder, meant to smother a dryad’s keen sense of smell. Some could be placated with gifts, but others would always fight, and running was useless if the dryad could still track his scent.

It had been a while since he had ventured into the deep forest, but overall he liked it better there than in the swamps of Levantar. Water-dwelling calpas were perhaps less dangerous than the watchful dryads, but at least he wouldn’t be constantly soaked and covered in mud. In the sinking swamps, the land itself could all too easily prove deadly.

His thoughts kept straying back to Quiline as he packed and mulled over what he knew of her part in the case. She was certainly the highest ranked person in the keep who had survived, thanks to her own pragmatic abandonment of the gate and her usefulness to the new king. 

She usually spoke rather distantly of the Lanosos, but he was sure that was out of habit, so as to keep people from questioning her loyalty to Erryan. 

There had been a few moments when her fondness for them slipped through in her tone before she quashed it again, and she had briefly mentioned a story of having played with Fray when they were children, so they clearly had a long and familiar history.

As the one person left in the keep who had apparently been close to the royal family, he seriously suspected that the architect knew more than she had said, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back and ask the questions which would confirm her involvement. 

It would have taken great care to answer the questions he had already asked without setting off his flair, and he respected anyone who could manage that kind of evasion. 

More than that, he liked Quiline immensely; methodical and clear headed as she was, she could have made a good thieftaker, and her sharp tongue stung less viciously the more they spoke. 

Her accounts of the keep under Fray’s rule had been vivid and full of small, happy details, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to see it that way again. 

In the meantime, he had decided almost instinctively that if he didn’t ask Quiline the right questions, she wasn’t guilty of anything. It was no more than a suspicion that way, and even if Erryan could turn Flynt’s brain to screaming mush, but he couldn’t force him to condemn anyone without proof.

With his fear of Erryan and his wavering loyalty pulling him in opposite directions, it would be a relief to leave the city for a while.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynt gathers his wits and hits the road, expecting a long journey ahead.

‘I’ve learned all I can from the keep, sire,’ he told Erryan in the morning, standing in the throne room with his heavy saddlebag slung over his shoulders, hoping that his trip wasn’t about to be forcibly cancelled again.   
‘I doubt they survived at all, but if we assume they did, I’ve an idea of where the Lanosos might have got out, and from there I can imagine a few routes out of Ciquade. The problem is that there’s too little to work with here – I can’t give you any answers. I need to go and investigate the other end of the tale.’

‘You are going to the forest, chasing rumours?’ Erryan said, looking bored in the same way that a desert cat looked bored with something small and squeaking squashed firmly under its paw. 

Flynt had the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to be let loose just so Erryan could watch him run and squeak a while before catching him again.

‘Rumours, bandits, whatever I find,’ Flynt agreed. ‘If I may, I’d like to request some funds, for river passage or hiring a horse. I have a lot of travelling ahead of me.’

To his relief, Erryan didn’t seem offended by the request. He immediately drew a small cloth purse from his pocket and carelessly tossed it over. Flynt caught it, feeling the solid weight of gems but not daring to open it to find out what sort. He wondered, for a moment, what need Erryan had for gems when he never seemed to leave the castle, but it occurred to him that it must be useful in many meetings to casually throw wealth around as though it was nothing.

‘Thank you, sire,’ he said, dipping his head in the deepest bow he could manage, laden as he was.

Erryan hummed contemplatively in reply. 

‘The deep forest is a dangerous place,’ he said, not sounding remotely concerned. He had very little to lose if Flynt was killed in the search. There were other thieftakers he could coerce, though perhaps none with Flynt’s truth-seeking flair, and they could pick up wherever he had failed. Knowing that he was expendable did nothing for Flynt’s confidence whenever he had to speak to Erryan directly.

‘I know how to keep the dryads happy, most of the time.’

‘I’m sure you do. Don’t tarry, Flynt Coal, or I may begin to wonder what keeps you away.’

‘I don’t know how long it might take,’ Flynt protested. Chasing rumours was always a chancy business, and he might spend weeks looking and have nothing to show for it at the end.

‘Don’t tarry,’ Erryan repeated, and waved Flynt away with one indolent hand.

Flynt went, thoroughly unhappy with the vague deadline. If he exceeded Erryan’s idea of a reasonable time, he would probably wish the dryads had got him anyway.

~

The purse proved to contain a healthy weight of rubies, more than enough to cover Flynt’s starting supplies, pay for a ferry across the river and let him hire a horse at a livery yard on the other side. He trudged down towards the river, taking a slight detour to stop at Lion’s house on the way. He had made a point of visiting before his last few journeys, fearing that she wouldn’t still be there when he returned.

Sure enough, when Lion answered the door and saw the bag on his shoulders, she rolled her eyes.

‘I’m not dying that fast, my boy,’ she rasped, waving him inside and moving slowly back to the massive chair beside her loom.

Flynt ducked his head, embarrassed by how easily she saw his motives.

‘Something could happen to either one of us,’ he pointed out.

‘True enough,’ Lion conceded. She was looking through a folded pile of cloth beside her loom, fingers deft on the fabric. ‘I presume you’re still on this case for the king?’

‘I’m just that lucky,’ Flynt muttered, drawing a wheeze of laughter from his teacher.

‘At least you can leave the city a while. Where are you going?’

‘North and west. As far into the deep woods as I must to find these bandits.’

Lion scowled. ‘Not too far, I hope. Better the king’s anger than the dryads.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Flynt said, thinking of Erryan’s careless abuse of his flair and shuddering.

‘Lares, he must be terrible,’ Lion said, straightening up with an armload of dark green cloth and catching Flynt’s shudder. ‘I remember you weeping for fear of the dryads the first time we ran into their lands.’

‘I know better now,’ Flynt said. ‘I’ve learned how to survive them. Erryan isn’t so easy to predict.’

‘And still you work for him?’ Lion said, her deep green eyes searching his face.

Flynt ducked his head again, fearing that she could read his every doubt on his face.

‘For now,’ he said.

Lion just looked at him for a moment longer, lips thin with worry, then thrust the folded cloth at him.

‘Something to solve a simpler problem,’ she said. ‘You said there were holes in your blanket after your last trip.’

‘I mended them,’ Flynt said petulantly, but he took the blanket, feeling his fingers sink into thick wool heavy with lanolin that would keep off the rain. There were threads of brown and brighter green amid the dark green weave, and he was sure it would make him almost invisible in the dark woods.

‘You could sell this for a good price,’ Flynt said, frowning. ‘I don’t need it.’

‘You’re still terrible at accepting gifts,’ Lion said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘There’s little enough I can do to help you, so shut up and take it.’

‘Thank you,’ Flynt said, managing a small smile despite how much he suddenly missed her company on his travels. ‘I’ll try to take good care of it.’

Lion huffed. ‘We’ll see. Now, aren’t you supposed to have left?’

‘I suppose so,’ Flynt said with a sigh. Eager as he was to escape Erryan’s sight for a while, it wasn’t the journey he would have chosen. 

He rolled up the new blanket and swung his bag off his shoulder. When he pulled out his worn, much-mended blanket and replaced it, his bag bulged a little more than before. Certainly, the new blanket would be warmer.

‘Thank you,’ he said again, and leaned forward to let Lion kiss his forehead.

‘Stay out of trouble,’ she said, and let out another wheeze of laughter.

Flynt chuckled. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

~

The river was busy, but it didn’t take too long to find a tiny ferry to take him across. Flynt preferred the smaller craft despite the rougher crossing, since the boaters could drop him where he chose, rather than using the sturdy jetties the larger boats required. 

When they bumped the western bank he gave a sliver of emerald to the boat-woman and hopped out of the boat, walking straight up to the nearest stable.

The weathered old building didn’t look promising, but Flynt had used their horses before and he knew they were reliable. All the yard’s funds went into caring for their horses instead of making the stables look pretty, and he agreed with that choice.

‘Do you know how long you need this time?’ the hostler asked, recognising Flynt when he dropped his saddlebag in the dry dirt near the entrance to the yard. ‘Or are we talking in guesses, as usual?’

Flynt waved the question aside. ‘I like to keep my options open.’

The hostler snorted. ‘Right. It’ll be the usual up-front and per-day charge, then. Where’re you heading, thieftaker?’

‘West, and north. I’m chasing rumours more than any real prey, so I might end up anywhere,’ Flynt hedged.

The hostler was having none of it. ‘You’re taking my horse into the deep woods, aren’t you? I weren’t born yesterday, I know what west means, coming from you.’

Flynt hummed non-committally. ‘I’m just going wherever the case leads.’

‘Ditch the bullshit and pay up. I’ve told you enough times, going off the stone roads into the forest adds to the up-front because of the dryads. An extra two grains of rubies, three of opal or emeralds, I don’t care which.’

‘Should just buy my own bloody horse,’ Flynt grumbled.

The hostler laughed. ‘Good luck caring for it every day for less than our price, and finding somewhere to keep it in the city.’

Flynt sighed resignedly. ‘Fair enough. Which horse should I take?’

‘Thunder should see you right. She’s about as steady in the woods as they get, not that that’s saying much.’

The hostler beckoned him over to a stocky black mare who was watching them over the door of her stable. Flynt offered her his hand to sniff, then stroked her soft nose. She lipped curiously at his palm, looking for carrots, but there was no malice in her.

‘She’ll do,’ he decided.

The last space in the stable had been turned into a kind of shop, and he followed the hostler there to sign for the horse and weigh out the price in tiny rubies.

‘I mean to follow the mountain road as far north as the foothills, so I’ll be at least twenty days even if I go straight out and back. Best not to expect me for at least a month,’ Flynt guessed.

The hostler snorted again. ‘Call it two, then. I know how your work goes.’

Flynt huffed. ‘True enough, but I’ve people breathing down my neck this time.’ He didn’t like to guess how long Erryan might consider his absence justified.

~

It didn’t take long to have Thunder tacked up, his bag and waterskin strapped behind the saddle. He trotted out of the yard and took the stone road away from the river, just one of the many people travelling. Most were more heavily laden than him, travelling to trade more tangible things than information. There were ox-drawn carts full of logs and spring crops heading back to the river, and others full of cloth and crates of worked goods moving in the same direction as him. 

The ponderous carts were easy enough to overtake, and Flynt made good time, relishing the warm sun on his skin and the relative quiet of the road. He would miss the city bustle soon enough, particularly when he left the main roads and there was no one for miles around, but for a while at least he could appreciate the casual company of other travellers.

He followed the road west until it forked about ten miles later. He could have turned south there and reached the Browns’ plantation in twelve days or so of easy riding, and he dearly wished that road was open to him. Instead, he went north, joining the thin trickle of people walking or riding the long road towards the distant mountains. 

The surrounding country was flat and green with spring, sheep and llamas grazing among the tall grasses, accompanied by their herders. He could see fruit orchards and plantations of cocoa trees further from the road, and every few miles a track from the farms joined the main stone way. 

People sat at many of those junctions selling whatever they had grown; fresh guavas and plantains or stored sweet potatoes among many others. Flynt reined in his horse and bought a net of early mangos when he saw them, knowing that he would want something fresh rather than relying entirely on his supply of dried food.

When the sun was setting over the fields in a blaze of red and gold, he began to look out for yellow flags. There were inns on the road, but they were far apart, and some of the farms and plantations would also let travellers stay. A narrow pennant flown beside a path off the road indicated that there would be a bed or two available at the farms it served, if you weren’t too picky about where you slept. 

Flynt had long since learned to take his rest where he found it, and even a pallet in a barn was better than lying in the open. There were too many snakes and other unfriendly creatures that were attracted to the heat of a sleeping person, or the smell of food in their bags, and it was best to avoid them when the chance arose.

The journey would be long enough without stopping early, and he was too agitated to sleep just yet, so he rode on until there was only starlight and moonlight to see by, trusting Thunder’s footing on the even stones. 

There were few people on the road so late, but Flynt didn’t fear bandits. He had fought to keep his meagre possessions before, and he could do so again if he must. On this particular trip it might be more help than hindrance if he was attacked; he was actively looking for bandits, after all. 

Thunder could keep up a walking pace all night if he asked, slowly eating away at the miles, but he thought it best to stop around midnight. Any later, and he might not find anyone awake to welcome him.

He found a hanging flag, yellow turned to pale grey by moonlight, and followed the dirt path carefully towards the distant lamps of a farmhouse.

The sound of a half-a-dozen voices, young and old, drifted into the night from the open-latticed windows of the large house, and he heard them long before he halted and dismounted at the door. They sounded friendly enough, and he knocked with a light heart.

A man opened the door, dressed in a rougher shirt and trousers than Flynt’s own, but much like him in appearance; tall, thin and dark.

‘There was a flag on the road,’ Flynt said, smiling politely. ‘I know it’s late, but is there a place to sleep here?’

The man looked him up and down, then nodded. 

‘Supper too, if you don’t mind leftovers. I’ll take a little opal, or a morning’s work tomorrow,’ he offered.

‘It’ll be an opal, I’m in a hurry,’ Flynt said.

The man grunted agreement and pulled the door shut behind him.

‘You can settle your horse at the trough,’ he said, and beckoned for Flynt to follow.

Thunder was quickly untacked and loosely hitched to a post within reach of a stone water trough. There was plenty of grass around her, and Flynt wasn’t worried that she’d go hungry overnight.

Flynt carried his bag and saddle inside, setting them down by the door, and looked up to see that the first floor of the house was mostly one large room, and the family was watching him from their seats around the fire. 

Three boys, ranging from a few years old to almost adolescent, were sprawled on the rug, while a young woman rested in a chair, one hand on her heavily pregnant belly. She looked of an age with the man who had answered the door, so he guessed they were probably bonded. An older man, greying but still strong, was standing leaned against the side of the hearth, while a similarly aged woman sat beside him.

Flynt met their curious stares with a smile, and the greying man nodded thoughtfully.

‘It’s late to still be travelling,’ he said.

‘I have a long way to go, and not much time,’ Flynt replied. ‘Thank you for letting me stop here.’

‘Why’re you in a hurry?’ one of the boys asked.

‘Manners, Ely,’ the pregnant woman chided, but he could tell that she was curious too.

‘I’m a thieftaker, and I’m looking for bandits,’ Flynt said plainly. There was no harm in saying so, since a farming family was unlikely to be fond of thieves.

The old woman gave an interested hum.

‘Glad someone is.’

‘Have you had some trouble here?’ Flynt asked at once. He hadn’t thought there had been much activity so far south.

Before she could answer, the young man came back from putting together a plate of leftovers and pushed it into Flynt’s hands.

‘Here, have a seat and get that down you,’ he invited.

Flynt’s stomach felt hollow, and he was more than happy to comply. He dropped into an empty chair, taking the one furthest away from the fire for courtesy’s sake, and attacked the food at once. The stew was barely warm, but it was full of soft beans and nutty mushrooms, with a good kick of peppers, and it went very well with the chunk of cornbread on the side.

‘We haven’t had any problems ourselves,’ the old woman told him as he ate, ‘but we have a lot of travellers stopping here, and anyone coming down from the north lately has been full of mutterings about bandits.’

‘What do they say about them?’

‘Small groups, there and gone faster than you’d think possible, taking jewels at knife-point from anyone who looks to have them. Standard banditry, though very well carried out, but these folks in particular all wear something of Fray’s green, and apparently they tell those they rob to go and complain to the “false” king. They say this wouldn’t be happening if the old king came back.’

‘They claim he’s alive?’

‘Apparently,’ the old man put in with a non-committal shrug. ‘Seems someone’s listening, since there are more of them every day.’

_They’re recruiting,_ Flynt thought, as he mopped up the last of his stew. _Or else others are taking the colour and the story for the little sympathy it might gain them._

‘Of everyone you’ve spoken with, who was attacked the furthest south?’

‘There was a couple who were robbed near Breen. That’s only about four days from here, if you turn west off the main road a little further north.’

‘Closer than I’d thought,’ Flynt said. ‘I’ll have to take a detour tomorrow.’

‘Best get some rest before then,’ the old man suggested, taking his empty plate. ‘The privy is out the front and off to the left, if you need it. We’ll be heading up soon, but there’s a bed for you down here.’ 

He pointed to a doorway across the room, opposite the stairs, and when Flynt went over to it, he saw a narrow room plainly set aside for travellers. There was room for a bed and a tiny table with a lamp, but nothing else.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He grabbed his bag from beside the front door, more out of habit than any real fear that they would steal his modest supplies, and shut himself in the little room, not bothering to light the lamp. He only meant to strip off his boots and belt, and he could do that in the dark.

The day had been very long, and he fell asleep before the family had even gone up to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listening in crowded taverns is a critical skill for a thieftaker, but the forest holds answers of its own.

Flynt took his leave in the morning, giving his payment to the pregnant young woman, since all the rest were already out on the farm by the time he woke. She was kind enough to give him cornbread and milk before he left, and he felt well prepared for another day’s travel.

The ride was quiet and unremarkable, the same as any number of other days he had spent travelling alone, and during the morning he had nothing to do but let Thunder have her head and idly watch the other travellers. 

The tedium of travel was often a necessary evil of his work, and he was long used to allowing his mind to wander, letting hot sun and the regular sound of hooves lull him until memory and observation held equal weight. He often missed Lion's company on such long journeys, remembering his early years as a thieftaker still learning at her side. 

They had always travelled together then, and even once he had nothing else to learn they had worked together from time to time, familiar company and idle conversation making the roads seem shorter on those journeys. Lion had been welcome travelling company until her health finally forced her to stop, quiet and efficient in a way that Flynt always appreciated. Too boisterous a companion would only have irritated him, but Lion knew the value of silence too well to chatter.

In the heat of the afternoon the stone road shimmered in the distance, silver grey and white dancing in his vision. The blinding mirage encouraged him to keep his eyes down, and he was almost surprised by a major fork in the road when he reached it. 

A smaller tributary branched west away from the main road, and a weathered sign declared the names of a few small towns or villages which could be reached on the side road. Breen was among them, so he took the fork, noting that he was pointing directly towards the heart of the forest, and though it would be days before he reached true, thick jungle, the trees around the road ahead were already noticeably thicker. 

He hadn’t meant to get into the forest until he had to, but it was no surprise that his investigation had led him there sooner rather than later. For all the dangers that hid in the trees, it was a natural habitat for bandits who wished to strike and then vanish.

The west road was quieter than the route that ran to the northern mountains, and by the time night was falling Flynt had only seen a handful of scattered people, mostly locals moving among the plantations.

The yellow pennants that indicated shelter were fewer and further between, and Flynt eventually had to stop where he saw water rather than pushing on in the vague hope of a real bed.

Thunder didn’t seem to care either way, bending her neck and drinking from the edge of the little stream as soon as Flynt took the bit from her mouth. He got her hobbles on, keeping her from wandering too far overnight, and ate mangoes and hard biscuit sitting on the rocks beside the water, feeding the thick fruit skins to an eager Thunder. 

His hunger sated, he unrolled his blanket and stretched out on his back on the ground, staring up at the emerging stars. With no fire, and no human light for miles, they stood out in shimmering clusters, thickest where a pale band lightened the night to almost azure blue, and he lost himself in the endless sky above. The irregular tear and crunch of Thunder grazing and the quiet gurgle of the stream lulled him into sleep.

~

That day set the pattern for several that followed it, and by the time he reached Breen Flynt was almost starving for human company. 

It was a small trading town, surrounded by the trailing fringes of the forest where trees fought farms for possession of the land. He arrived in the full heat of the afternoon, when the main street and its handful of shops were sleepy and all but deserted. The only people in view were clustered in the large garden of a sprawling tavern, and Flynt pointed Thunder towards them out of a joint desire for company and information.

He followed the scent of hay and manure to the side of the tavern and dismounted, leading Thunder into a yard lined on three sides with stables. Only a few stalls were occupied, suggesting that most of the people gathered in the garden were locals. That was a mixed blessing – travellers from further afield would give him a bigger picture, but the locals in Breen would know if there were bandits lurking nearby.

He handed Thunder’s reins to a stable boy and took his saddlebag in through the side door of the tavern.

Inside, the main room was hot and close, with a low ceiling and not enough windows opened to let in light and air. It was easy to see why it had been almost universally abandoned in favour of the breeze outside.

Flynt felt himself sweating almost immediately in the still air and hastened to get out into the garden, paying for a room and a jug of colonche as swiftly as the lethargic tavern-keeper would allow. It was a warm spring day, but that was nothing in comparison to the heavy, humid heat of midsummer, and he wondered if they would open more windows later in the year.

_Best hope I’m not still here to find out,_ he reminded himself as he stepped into the garden and turned his attention to the gathered people, considering who would be best to draw into conversation.

Most of the drinkers seemed to be farmhands and foresters, men and women taking a break from hard physical work during the hottest part of the day. There were smudges of dirt and wood shavings on their clothes and scattered on the ground where they had brushed themselves off, and their hands were visibly calloused. 

A few turned their heads and regarded Flynt with interest or mild suspicion, and he approached the nearest table where someone in the group had shown curiosity. In his experience, curious people always had more information.

He set the jug of colonche down with a thud, and smiled when he saw that all four people at the table were focused on him, two men and two women of varying ages but with a similar worn look.

‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve plenty to share.’

Three of them nodded wordlessly, but the eldest, a wiry, weathered woman with sharp blue eyes, made a tsking sound behind her teeth.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, before Flynt had even finished pouring himself a drink.

Flynt met her challenging gaze mildly. ‘A cool drink, a little conversation after long days on the road.’

Her expression grew no less pinched, not letting his answer slide, and he gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘And if that conversation should happen to concern any bandit problems you’ve been having around here, well, that would be very helpful.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ asked the taller of the two men, helping himself from the jug.

‘My name’s Flynt Coal, I’m a thieftaker. I was asked to come and investigate the rumours of bandits wearing a very particular shade of green.’

He could tell by the slight stiffening of their shoulders and the widening of their eyes that they knew exactly what he meant.

‘I see you’ve heard a thing or two,’ he said, his tone encouraging them to speak.

‘Heard, seen, whatever you want to call it,’ the other man agreed with a scowl. He had an unusually large nose, and when he wrinkled it Flynt had the sudden impression of a tomato squashed in the centre of his face.

‘Seen?’ Flynt prompted.

‘I ran into a couple myself, on a track a ways west of here. It’s not used much, and I wasn’t expecting any trouble,’ the man admitted. ‘Fuckers didn’t find any gems on me, so they took the chance to put the boot in before they vanished again. Both of them wore bright green hats, and they were very clear when they were kicking me in the guts that it was Erryan’s fault.’

‘Do you remember what they said?’

The man nodded. ‘Hear a thing when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you, it tends to stick in your mind. They said that Erryan was a madman, a thief who stole the throne and doomed everyone in Alcanar. They said if he was gone, there’d be no one like them on the roads anymore.’

‘Does that seem likely?’ Flynt asked, hoping to gauge sympathy for the bandits.

The man shrugged and took a deep swallow of his drink. ‘How should I know? Bandits have always been around, haven’t they? Why’d one king or another make any bloody difference all the way out here?’

‘See, you say that,’ the older woman broke in, ‘But land tax has gone up every year for the last five, and that’s the king’s doing. And that money’s sure as shit not going to guarding the roads – lately they’ve got worse than ever. Bandits are one thing, but these ones in Fray’s green weren’t around until a year or two ago, and they’re smarter and surer than the thieves we used to get round here.’

The other woman hummed in agreement. ‘They’re organised, and they want something more than just gems, I think. Maybe Fray wants his crown back. Erryan did steal it, they’re not wrong about that.’

‘Isn’t Fray dead?’ Flynt prodded.

‘They don’t seem to think so, or else why’d they wear his colours?’ she said, with the triumph of someone scoring a point.

‘Can you even take a crown without killing whoever’s wearing it? It’s supposed to be tied with magic, right?’ said the man with the squashed nose.

‘So it’s said, but I never heard that it’d kill you. Actually, no, it won’t, think about the Tale of Tanelyr,’ said the woman, sounding pleased with herself for remembering the old folk tale. ‘He gave up the crown, handed it to his cousin before he went on his search, and it didn’t kill him.’

‘That’s a myth, and even so it’s different, isn’t it? Giving it up willingly? And wouldn’t Erryan have killed him anyway? I hear he killed everyone in the castle.’

‘Maybe he got out, or his family did. He had family, didn’t he?’ said the taller man.

‘There were three other Lanosos in the keep that night, Queen Talon and their children,’ Flynt confirmed.

The man nodded sagely. ‘See, even if Fray’s dead, his family might want the crown back. Maybe they’re funding the bandits.’

‘Funding them with what?’ the young woman pointed out. ‘If they’re alive, they’ve been in hiding for a decade. And why’d bandits need funds anyway? They literally take what they want!’

‘Inspiring them, then. Listen, I know what they said to me, and I know the colour they wore,’ said the squash-nosed man, sounding heated. ‘Normal thieves don’t do that. Why would they, if they’d no reason for it?’

Flynt sat back and listened to them argue back and forth until the jug of colonche was empty, sipping slowly at his own cup. It was interesting to hear the theories, whether there was truth in any of them or not. At this point, wild guesses were as valuable as anything else.

When they had argued themselves to a standstill, he broke in again.

‘Whereabouts is the track where you were attacked?’ he asked.

‘Maybe six miles out of town. Go out behind the forge and take the track west into the trees.’

‘Where does it go?’

‘Nowhere much; a couple of farmsteads, and you can turn north off it to cut short the walk to Tausin, if you don’t miss the path.’

Tausin had been one of the places listed on the signpost, further up the road, and Flynt thought he might head that way once he was finished in Breen. The back route was as good a way to get there as any. If he was lucky, he might run into some bandits and get to ask his questions up close.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and took his leave from the group. 

The afternoon had cooled as he listened to them talk, and some people had left to return to work, while others had arrived, mothers or fathers with young children coming to get them an early meal.

Flynt went back into the stifling bar for long enough to buy another jug of colonche, and picked another table to join. With his entire search based on rumours, it was worth spending a day just listening to what people had to say, and a man who had drinks to share was always more welcome.

By the time night had fallen, a good collection of the local people had come and gone in their turn, and from their personal accounts and fragments of gossip Flynt had built the beginnings of a picture in his head.

The stories of trouble were all from the north west, on the roads during quiet times, or scattered around the smaller tracks deep in the forest, and whether the bandits had been old, young, male or female, all of them wore green and blamed their actions on Erryan. 

The other interesting point was that they didn’t seem fond of killing, preferring to flee into the trees when their quarry was armed and put up a fight. He only heard one report where someone had been killed on the road north of Tausin, and that was in a struggle, an accident rather than a deliberate act of violence. 

Given their lack of scruples otherwise, it seemed odd that the thieves would stay their blades. Usually, he wouldn’t expect their kind to have any objection to cold-blooded murder. It was his experience that many of them found it easier to get corpses to give up their purses, and acted with the maximum possible violence as a result.

Still, the relative pacifism of this particular green-clad group was certainly earning them more sympathy than they might otherwise have found. People who had not had direct dealings with them spoke with less fear and more cautious interest, curious as to whether there was some truth to what they said. For a band of thieves, they were surprisingly tolerated, if not actually liked.

_Someone knows what they’re doing,_ Flynt thought, as he lay in the lumpy tavern bed contemplating what he had learned. _There must be some leader in the middle of all these scattered bandits; their methods are too similar for it to be chance, and whoever it is knows a bit about gaining a following._

It wasn’t yet compelling evidence that the Lanosos were alive and stirring up trouble, but it was certainly suggestive. There was a leader somewhere, and they had chosen Fray’s green for a reason. 

There was more to discover in the deep forest than simple robbery, he was sure, and he eventually fell asleep thinking about walking down an ever darkening tunnel between towering trees. He already knew that his journey was only going to lead him further into the forest.

~

He indulged himself in the morning, lying and dozing in the early sunlight for a while before he forced himself to get up. Lumpy as it was, the bed was a welcome change from sleeping on the ground, and it was most likely that he would be on the ground again come nightfall. By his best reckoning, Tausin was two days away, and the chances of finding welcoming farmsteads only decreased as he ventured further from the main roads. 

A hundred miles west, there were no people at all, only the vast, unwelcoming expanse of the forest stretching all the way to the far sea coast, and Flynt could only hope that he wouldn’t have cause to go that far. He had chased a man into the very heart of the woods once before, and had no desire to be that isolated again. The dryads only got more aggressive as the human hold on the land grew weaker.

Breakfast was a hot bowl of porridge, sweetened with nuts and honey, and he ate in the quiet of the main bar with the few passing traders who had slept at the tavern. Most of them were dressed for travel in worn, stained clothes, barely awake and looking as annoyed at the prospect of getting back on the road as he felt.

_They’d think me mad if I said I hoped to run into bandits,_ he thought with some amusement. The less he had to steal, the less threat there was, and while travelling with a trader might make him a more tempting target, the higher stakes would only make it harder to talk reasonably to the bandits. With that in mind, he declined when one of the traders offered him company if he was heading to Tausin.

‘I’m going west by a smaller road first,’ he explained. ‘Your wagon might not fit, and I wouldn’t want to delay you.’

Thunder was well rested and fidgety, dancing sidelong as he rode through Breen, looking for the blacksmith. He smelled the forge before he saw it, the sharp, sweet scent of burning horn drifting down the street from an open-fronted building. He turned at the narrow cross street beside it and passed the smith already at work shoeing a horse in the yard, sending up curls of grey-blue smoke.

It was the last human smell he encountered, since the track delved almost immediately into the woods, and all trace of the town was swallowed by encroaching greenery within a few minutes. 

The path was well kept, fresh wood chips trodden into the loam to make it harder for the undergrowth to overrun it, and Thunder’s hooves left shallow marks in the soft surface with every stride. It was wide enough for three to walk abreast, but as far as Flynt could see ahead there was no one else in sight, and he kept to the middle of the track as it wove gently between the trunks of massive trees. 

Trailing vines hung from the branches on either side, thick with white flowers, and he could hear the chattering calls of monkeys hidden in the high canopy. They were a useful early-warning system, since they would always flee from hungry dryads. So long as he could hear birds and monkeys and they weren’t calling in alarm, he could be relatively relaxed.

The air smelled damp and close, the rotting plants and heady spring flowers combining into a powerful musty green smell that he had never encountered elsewhere. Even the distant swamps had more of a fresh breeze than the ground beneath the dense forest canopy. The light itself was tinged green by the layers of leaves overhead.

He followed the path west, keeping his eyes open for a branching track that would take him north. The path served a few isolated farmsteads in the clearings that dotted the forest, but they were widely scattered, and he rode until noon without seeing any trace of one.

There was a shower of rain in the early afternoon, sudden and violent, passing as swiftly as it had begun. Flynt waited it out under the thickest tree he could find, listening to the roar of raindrops beating on the canopy and ducking away from the few fat drops that made it through the leaves of his shelter. Such tempests grew more common as one journeyed west, and it was those sudden, brief falls of warm rain that made the forest so lush and humid.

The birds had gone quiet when the cloudburst began, and when their songs started up again in the wake of the last few drops he knew it was time to move on.

Thunder hadn’t cared about the rain, wandering on the edge of the path where there were grasses and low shrubs to eat, and Flynt had to walk a little way to catch up to her and remount. The thick leather of his bag had kept his belongings dry, and a few swipes of his hand cleared most of the water off his saddle. The air was so hot and damp anyway that he wouldn’t bother trying to stay completely dry.

He passed a clearing on the right hand side of the track, a large farmhouse with a flourishing garden around it. Little isolated farmsteads were scattered for many miles around the villages on the forest’s edge, taking advantage of the rich soil to grow food, but it wasn’t a life that Flynt thought he would choose. The forest tended to creep in, and it was a constant balancing act to keep it away. 

It was hardly a surprise that bandits made their camps in the forest, given how vast and thick it was, and it seemed similarly apt to Flynt that the Lanosos might have fled into the trees, if they had lived. If they had only wanted to make a hidden life, there were hundreds of miles of land where no one would find them.

Flynt didn’t see anyone moving around the farmstead, and rather than stopping and trying to find someone to talk to, he elected to keep riding. There was meant to be at least one other farm before the branching track that led to Tausin, and he didn’t want to waste time. There was so much ground to cover as it was, and he always had the lingering awareness that Erryan was waiting.

~

Flynt knew before the undergrowth had even begun to move that he was no longer alone. The constant background calls of the colourful birds had gone quiet, and he felt an itchy prickling sensation as the hairs on the back of his neck rose in instinctive response.

He reined Thunder in as soon as the thick bushes on his left rustled and swayed, and watched calmly as two women crept out onto the track ahead of him. 

They were dark haired and strong, armed with short bows which weren’t much good at great range but were perfect in the close confines of the dense forest. Both wore masks of dark cloth, and their coats were a bright shade of green, like the new-grown vines around them. Flynt’s heart picked up as much at the sight of Fray’s green as at the nocked arrows they were pointing at him.

The women eyed him with cautious curiosity, their stances wary, perhaps expecting him to draw some hidden weapon or suddenly spur his horse forward and try to flee.

‘Generally, people don’t stop until we make them,’ one of them remarked, tilting her head as she looked up at Flynt.

‘Most people aren’t happy to see bandits,’ Flynt pointed out, rather enjoying how wrong-footed they were by his calm reaction.

‘So why the fuck are you happy?’ the shorter woman asked.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Flynt admitted with a little smile. ‘I came to the woods to find out about bandits wearing Fray’s colour, and if I’m not very much mistaken, that’s the right shade of green. Why do you wear it?’

Flynt leaned on the pommel of his saddle and watched as they looked concernedly at each other, trying to work out how to respond. He wondered idly if they lived in the farmhouse he had passed, or if they had travelled further from their homes before daring to steal.

‘Give us your gems and we’ll tell you,’ one of the pair demanded, after a moment’s pause.

Flynt shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing to give, but I think you want to tell me anyway. I gather that you and your friends are as much about telling a story as actually stealing. So, I’m here to listen, what’s the story?’

The shorter woman tightened her grip on her bow, and Flynt would have bet she was scowling under the mask. ‘You’re wearing silk. Bullshit you don’t have any gems.’

Flynt spread his hands, inviting her to come and try to take the shirt off his back if she really wanted. ‘You’d have to kill me to find out for sure, and I don’t think you really want to. Someone’s in charge, and they don’t want too much bloodshed, do they?’

The taller woman seemed less reactionary, less inclined to violence than her companion, and she stared thoughtfully up at him.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘It seems that someone has said more than they should, or else you’re too perceptive for your own good.’

‘I’ve pieced a thing or two together,’ Flynt agreed, with a flash of a grin. ‘Flynt Coal, thieftaker, at your service.’

‘Thieftakers aren’t usually at our service, in this line of work,’ she said, her fingers twitching on her bowstring.

‘No doubt, but you may have noticed that I’m not after you,’ Flynt soothed. ‘I’m more interested in finding out how to speak to someone in charge.’

‘This mystery person you think is pulling our strings?’

‘Yes. I think it’s one of the Lanoso family. Is it?’

The woman hesitated for a minute. 

Flynt could see her dilemma; he could tell that much of what the green-clad bandits had been doing had been meant to spread rumours, to prepare people for the idea that the Lanosos could return. However, there was a wide gulf between rumours and flat-out revealing the controlling hand behind their scattered group to a thieftaker with unknown motives.

‘If it helps, I’ll know the truth no matter what you say. I’m very difficult to lie to,’ he told her with an encouraging smile.

She shook her head ruefully. ‘Some sort of flair?’

Flynt nodded. ‘That’s right. So, is one of the Lanoso family in charge?’

There was dead silence, the woman chewing her lip in thought. Flynt held his breath.

‘Lares, either kill him or tell him,’ the shorter woman said impatiently, after the pause had stretched too long. ‘Or I’ll choose for myself, and fuck seniority!’

‘Yes,’ the other woman said at last, and a thrill of triumph went through Flynt’s blood. One of the family was alive.

‘Which one leads you?’

‘That depends, what day is it?’ the shorter woman said sarcastically, and her companion elbowed her sharply in the ribs, driving the air out of her with a whoosh.

Flynt’s glee redoubled. More than one still alive, then. 

‘That’s very interesting. If I wanted to speak to them, how would I do that?’

‘You won’t catch them,’ the taller woman said quickly, apparently concerned by how much he was learning from them.

‘I didn’t say I wanted to, did I?’ Flynt countered, smiling as reassuringly as he could. He didn’t want either of them getting delayed anxiety and putting an arrow in him for knowing too much. ‘I’d just like to talk to them. We have friends in common, I think.’

‘If that’s true, maybe you’ll learn something if you go north-west from Tausin,’ she suggested hesitantly. ‘Now, go away, before I think better of this conversation.’

Flynt didn’t need telling twice. He raised a hand in salute and kicked Thunder forward, leaning low on her neck to avoid the trailing vines as he fled as fast as the narrow track would allow.

He was sure he was going to feel an arrow punching through his back as one of the women regretted what they had said, and his spine didn’t stop crawling until he was many twists and turns away from the pair and night was drawing in.

Darkness fell quickly under the cover of the canopy, and Flynt chose to stop in a clear spot between two massive trunks while there was still light enough to gather wood for a fire. Some things, particularly cold-blooded snakes, were attracted to light and heat, but he was feeling jittery enough that he wanted the comfort of a fire. His mind had not stopped whirring since he had left the two bandits behind, and he knew it would be a long time before he managed to sleep.

He hobbled Thunder and set about building a small campfire just off the path, striking sparks into the driest dead brush he could find. The fire caught, burning smoky and sullen until the heat dried the larger twigs. 

He untied a tin cup from the front of his bag and poured in a little water from his skin, setting it at the edge of the fire to heat. Once it was beginning to steam he dropped a ball of dried fish into it and stirred it up.

With soup in hand he turned his back on the fire, choosing to keep his night vision while the flames warmed his back. Glowing eyes watched him from the surrounding trees, small rodents and climbing cats, but nothing large enough to worry him, leaving his mind free to wander.

At last he was certain that there was someone left alive for him to find. The bandits hadn’t lied, so least two of the Lanoso family had lived. It might be the two children, or one of them and their mother. 

_That would explain the ten year silence,_ he thought. _No point stirring trouble or trying to re-take the crown before the child would be ready to wear it. Erryan said Valaryan would be in his twenties now, so the timing seems right._

He still thought it least likely that Fray himself had survived, but it no longer seemed impossible. The family must have had Luck or Lares on their side to have got out at all, and given that Cetine had a flair for healing, perhaps Fray had a chance.

It had taken less time than he had expected to get some certain sign of his quarry, and as heartening as it was, there was still a search ahead. He sipped his cooling soup and considered what the woman might have meant.

The most likely answer was that there was a hidden house somewhere north-west of Tausin, but it must surely be well concealed to have kept the family safe for so long. Would it be enough to comb the forest until he stumbled on them, or would that be a fruitless waste of time? 

She hadn’t said how far north-west he would have to go, and the further from Tausin they were, the wider net he would have to cast. It could take months to follow every track and animal trail, and he was more likely to get lost than to find anything. 

_But she seemed to think there was a sign,_ he reminded himself. _I said we had friends in common, and she thought that I’d find them if it were true._

He could only hope that his conversations with Quiline would have told him what he needed to know to find the sign. If not, there was still a very long way to go.

_And what if I do find them?_ he thought. _I don’t think I want Erryan to know where they are, but in the end, he still sent me. They’ve stayed hidden a long time, so they aren’t likely to be welcoming._

It made him chuckle, sitting in a tiny pool of flickering firelight in a forest alive with small dangers, to think that his greatest threat might be the very people he had so hoped to find.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynt finds grudging guidance in Tausin, and wanders ever deeper into the woods.

He woke early, damp and chilled in the grey dawn, and didn’t start feeling properly warm again until he had ridden for nearly an hour. The sun broke through the trees in narrow bands, dappling the path with gold, and each one was a brief kiss of warmth, there and gone.

He turned north when the chance came, taking a similar wood-chip path that he hoped would lead him to Tausin. He had to find the village before he could begin the next part of his search, and he meant to stop there long enough to gather supplies and news.

Evening was drawing in by the time he emerged from the forest. The trees gave way with almost startling suddenness, cut back to stumps and low bushes to make room for a cluster of wooden houses, and Flynt squinted in the sudden red-gold light after the dimness of the thick forest.

Tausin was smaller and rougher than Breen, a single sprawling inn at the centre of a handful of houses, bounded to the north by a swift river. The stone road passed through it, crossing the river via a wide wooden bridge and turning northwards beyond the water. Flynt thought it most likely that the bridge was the reason there was a village at all. People on foot or horseback could swim the river anywhere, but for traders with carts or wagons there wouldn’t be another place to cross the water for miles, and it was a natural gathering point.

The inn was busy, wooden panels in the walls thrown open to let the hot, damp air circulate, and voices and music reached his ears while he was barely clear of the trees. The place looked as though it had been built in pieces, oddly shaped additions in slightly different wood stuck on at all angles, and a large garden in the misshapen space between them.

The stable looked like it had been part of the original building, the dark timber roof thick with moss in hard-to-reach places where no one had bothered to scrape it away. Inside, it was dry enough, and the hay did not smell of sweet rot, so he was happy enough to pay the young hostler to settle Thunder there for the night. There was no sign of the traders he had met in Breen, and he noted that the back route really was faster than the stone road which passed through other villages on the way, for all that it was claustrophobic and lonely.

The crowd that spilled through the open walls of the tavern into the garden was rowdy and surprisingly welcoming. Flynt guessed that Tausin must serve as a gathering point for people from isolated farmsteads for many miles around, who might only encounter each other when they deliberately came looking for company. With that in mind, it was easy to see why they were so eager to have a good time before retreating back into solitude.

With a jug of corn beer in hand, he settled himself at a table just inside the inn and immediately found himself invited into a lively game of dice, each person trying to throw a lower value than the one before.

There were cocoa beans being wagered in place of gems, their small value more fitting for the game, and Flynt had none to risk, but he was content to watch and listen to the good-natured ribbing that accompanied each throw of the bone dice. He had the sense that these people had won and lost against each other so often for so long that none of them either knew or cared where their balance stood.

‘Throw another triple six, Addly, there’s a good man, my bonded has a terrible hankering for chocolate these days,’ one young woman said, grinning at the man with the dice in his hand.

‘Buy it for her yourself, Min,’ the man replied gruffly. ‘It’s the least you owe her for making her be the one to carry.’

Min just laughed. ‘We both had an even chance of catching; the Lar just likes her better.’

‘Are you going to throw, or are you waiting for the babe to be born?’ a younger man grumbled, nudging at Addly’s elbow.

Addly pulled his hand away. ‘Interference! You all saw it. Whatever I roll, it’s Bryar’s fault!’

‘No one cares, so long as you actually roll!’

Addly huffed and finally tossed the dice. They clicked and bounced on the wooden table and finally settled on two fours and a three – a respectable roll, though not unbeatably low.

‘I ought to charge you for the help, that’s the best you’ve rolled all day,’ Bryar pointed out, scooping up the dice to continue the round. ‘Half your winnings sound about right?’

Addly made an outraged noise and scooped his pile of cocoa beans close to his chest. The other players just laughed.

They played a few more rounds, and Flynt shared his beer and listened, getting a sense for the community further out in the forest. It seemed that everyone knew everyone, no matter how scattered they were, which suggested that either the bandits came from a long way off, or they were local and only went after people they didn’t know. They were only mentioned once, and not with any real hostility.

Addly seemed in danger of losing yet another round, and jokingly threatened to leave Min staked out in the woods for the bandits to find.

Min laughed off the threat, suggesting that the bandits were the least of all the forest’s lurking dangers.

‘What are the dryads like around here?’ Flynt asked, drawn to question them directly for the first time. If he was going searching through the deep woods, it would behove him to know.

‘There are only one or two living near here, and they’re peaceable. There’s enough activity that the wilder sort tend to stay away from the area,’ Bryar told him.

‘It may not stay that way, though,’ Addly warned. ‘Every now and then we get a savage dryad trying to force the humans out. A couple of children recently went missing further west.’

‘Do they know it was a dryad?’ Flynt asked, grimacing at the thought.

Min shook her head. ‘No one’s found anything. But that alone is suggestive, isn’t it?’

Flynt nodded, wishing it weren’t true. There were plenty of animals that could kill a child, but only a dryad would leave no trace of a body. They even ate the bones, and took the scraps of clothing for themselves.

‘Well, on that sour note, I’ve got to go,’ Bryar said, making a disgruntled face. ‘I’ll leave you to consider your losses.’

‘Typical Bryar, leave when you’re winning,’ Addly muttered, without any real heat.

Bryar grinned, picking up his discarded coat and beginning to stuff his mound of cocoa beans into an inner pocket. A bundled cloth hat fell out of the inside of the coat, and Flynt caught a brief but unmistakable glimpse of Fray’s green. Bryar grabbed for it and stuffed it away inside a sleeve at once, but Flynt knew what he had seen.

Either no one else noticed or no one cared, and he said his farewells and left without incident.

Flynt got up at once and followed him.

Night had fallen as he watched them play, and it took him a moment to get his bearings outside, blinking in the starlight.

When his eyes adjusted he spotted a figure retreating around the side of the inn, towards the stables at the opposite end, and hurried to follow.

He moved quickly but cautiously, unsure of how Bryar would take to being followed if he noticed. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but there was no way for his quarry to know he wasn’t hostile. His care served him well when he rounded the next shadowed corner. A less experienced man would have walked directly into the knife.

Flynt rolled his weight back onto his trailing foot, neatly dodging the grab Bryar made for him. He thought of going for his dagger, but that would only make him seem more of a threat. Instead he brought his empty hands up to ward the man off, still stepping carefully backwards to keep some distance between them.

‘Bryar! I just want to talk to you,’ he promised, as evenly as he could manage with his heart instinctively pounding.

‘Bullshit, thieftaker!’ Bryar bit out, and Flynt regretted having admitted his profession earlier in the evening. ‘You saw my green, I know it.’

‘I did, but I’m not hunting for you. I swear it! Back off a minute, let me explain.’

Bryar didn’t look happy, but he stopped pressing his attack, sinking back into the shadow of the wall and watching Flynt suspiciously.

‘Why shouldn’t I kill you out here? No one’d care about a stranger, if they even noticed.’

‘You can try, if you like,’ Flynt offered mildly. ‘But I’m being honest, my friend. I’m not hunting bandits in green, except to ask them about their leaders. I’m looking for the Lanosos.’

‘Fuck off,’ Bryar said bluntly.

Flynt’s lips twitched at the corners. Everything was funnier when his blood was rushing with the urge to fight.

‘That’s rude, when I’ve come so far to speak with them. I wasn’t sure they were still alive, until yesterday, and I’m glad to hear that they are.’ He realised even as he said it that it was true; despite the fact that Erryan had set him on this course, he found his sympathies lay more with the mad king’s enemies. Everything he had learned of the former royal family had endeared them to him, and he hoped to find as many of them well as possible.

‘What do you want with them?’ Bryar asked, lowering his knife just a little, jerky and unsure. Flynt didn’t doubt that he would raise it again in an instant if he felt endangered.

‘I want to talk to them. It’s been ten years, and suddenly there are rumours of them reaching all the way to the city and Fray’s green is so common out here that no one else in that tavern so much as blinked to see it. Something must have changed, and I’m curious to know what. Not just for myself, either – they have an old friend in Ciquade who would give a great deal to hear good news of them. I want to be able to give her that news, I really do.’

He spoke plainly and earnestly, appealing to the good will of the man he had seen playing dice with friends, rather than the armed thief hiding in the shadows. It seemed to strike a chord, since Bryar lowered the knife a little more, relaxing his grip on its handle. He looked torn, unsure of what to say, and Flynt stayed quiet and waited. He had long since learned that most people were drawn to fill a silence.

‘What do you know that brought you out to Tausin, of all places?’ Bryar said at last, and Flynt smiled. He was feeling out what Flynt already knew before deciding what else to tell him.

‘I was told that there might be some sign of them north-west of here, for a friend who knew how to look. Do you know how far I might have to ride before I find it?’

Bryar grunted. ‘A few days, perhaps, but you’ll find them, I think. Unless your words are lies, and you’re no friend.’ 

He stepped abruptly out from the shadow of the wall and pointed through the village towards the bridge, his knife flashing silver in the starlight. The bridge itself was out of sight behind a house, but the distant rush of water told Flynt clearly where it was.

‘Cross that before you turn west, else you’ll just be trying to swim it later. You want more north than west, at first. And you best be prepared to rough it, thieftaker. You won’t find them by keeping to anything you’d call a road, I’ll tell you that much.’

Flynt grinned. ‘I’ve done my share of sleeping in the forest, on this journey and others. You said the local dryads ought not to bother me, at least.’

‘I wish now I’d lied to put you off,’ Bryar grumbled at once. ‘Nothing good can come of you stirring trouble.’

Flynt’s smile only widened. ‘I might not have been easily put off,’ he said. ‘I promise you, I’m not here to do harm. Thank you for your help.’

Bryar grunted again. ‘Not like they can’t kill you themselves if they want,’ he said. ‘They’re not helpless.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Flynt assured him.

Bryar dipped his chin, slid the knife back into its sheath at his waist and walked off into the village, swiftly vanishing between two houses.

Flynt hesitated a moment longer outside the tavern, listening to the music and the low babble of talk from within. It occurred to him that he might be safer leaving in the night, getting a head-start over anyone who Bryar might warn of his presence. 

On the other hand, he had never meant to hide himself. If anything he wanted to encourage people to look for him at the same time as he sought them out, and a night in the tavern before he ventured back into the forest sounded very appealing. It wasn’t as though there were no dangers in the trees, and the local people who might come after him knew the trails better than he ever would. Leaving might not help, and the tavern would at least be mostly free of snakes and spiders.

_Screw it, if someone wants to come and try to kill me, they can do it while I’m sleeping comfortably,_ he decided, and turned at once to go back inside.

~

Flynt slept poorly, troubled by bad dreams brought on by the uncertainty ahead, and the lurking fear of the mad king awaiting his return. 

He could have done without the dreams of Erryan pursuing him through the night-black forest, to be sure, but above all he resented the waste of a good bed. The mattress was smooth, stuffed with raw wool, and comfortable beds were few and far enough between for him to savour them when he travelled.

He was in a sour mood at breakfast, stabbing at a mess of eggs and yellow tomatoes with more force than the good food really deserved. The few people in the tavern’s main room so early could apparently sense his mood, since they were more distant than they had been the previous night, and no one tried to draw him into conversation.

_Either that, or Bryar’s had time to warn everyone that I’m trouble,_ he thought, poking a tomato with such force that it burst under his spoon. Annoying as it was, the sudden splash of juice alerted him to his own ire, and he forced himself to sit back and breathe until he felt less inclined to break something.

_Lares, I know better,_ he chided himself. _It’ll do me no good to be angry at nothing today._

Horses could always pick up on poor moods, and Thunder would be difficult enough as the trails shrank, undergrowth drawing in dense and smothering around them. The last thing he needed was to make her edgier than necessary.

He was calm by the time he had her tacked up and ready to go, though he had been dismayed to notice that the strap of his saddlebag was becoming worn. It wasn’t in immediate danger of breaking, and he decided it wasn’t worth the time to have it repaired just yet. With any luck he could find his answers and make it back to Ciquade before it became a problem.

The village was already lively, people moving between the little shops and running errands before the day grew too hot. There were travellers walking and driving carts of stone on the main road, coming south and east from the distant mountains, and he crossed paths with a small group of travelling players on his way out of Tausin, exchanging brief greetings with them. 

The clatter of hooves on stone changed abruptly to a hollower thud as he crossed the bridge. His head spun gently as he looked down into the swift green water below – it seemed for a moment that he might fall from the bridge and be swept along with the current, and he squeezed Thunder’s sides instinctively, anchoring himself and urging her to go faster at the same time.

The mild dizziness passed as soon as he was back on solid ground, and he made good progress on the wide stone road. He rode north for almost a full day, electing to stop at a farmhouse flying a yellow flag rather than pressing on into the evening.

The family were cautiously welcoming, but only had space for him in the loft above their barn. It wasn’t a bad place to sleep, warm and dry, but their little herd of peccaries were far from fragrant, and he was glad to leave with the rising sun just to get some fresher air.

When he set off in the morning, he started looking for a path leading west off the stone road. Bryar had said he needed to get off the roads, and he didn’t want to miss his chance.  
There was nothing larger than a deer track for a few miles, and if the Lanosos really were several days from Tausin, Flynt hoped to avoid such cramped paths for a little longer at least.

He turned west at the first wood-chipped path, which wound around the largest trunks but headed in generally the right direction as far as he could see.

He made good progress that day, keeping a sharp lookout for other paths and unfriendly company in equal measure. He found neither, and the warm, still day was almost disappointingly quiet. He wouldn’t complain about a lack of trouble, but he couldn’t deny that it was a struggle to stay calm when he was ready for action and found nothing. 

He was too full of energy to stop, and pressed on until it was almost completely dark. It wasn’t the wisest choice, leaving him stumbling blind when he eventually halted in a narrow stretch of mossy grass beside the path, but he would have been too agitated to sleep otherwise.

Spider monkeys woke him in the early morning, a small group foraging in the thick canopy and dropping half-eaten fruit as they grazed. The soft splat of curuba skins hitting his chest brought Flynt awake with a start, and his sudden movement set the monkeys barking, jumping away into another tree.

Flynt sat up and looked around, his hand already on his dagger, and it took a long moment for him to realise that there was no danger. He flopped back down against his bag, scrubbing a hand over his face and cursing the monkeys in a sleep-rough voice. His heart was racing, and he soon stirred himself and ate a little of his dried meat and biscuits, knowing that there would be no point in trying to sleep again.

Thunder had wandered down the edge of the path in the night, but she was still within sight, slowed by her hobbles, and once he had relieved himself it didn’t take Flynt long to catch her.

It rained in patches throughout the day, and Flynt was grateful for the cover of the thick trees overhead despite how hot and close the air was on the narrow path. The way only grew narrower in the afternoon, and his toes were brushing against leaves on both sides when he spotted something that made his heart thud suddenly in his chest.

Beside the path, half hidden in the shadow of a massive old trunk, he noticed a young tree which had grown into a tight spiral. It might have seemed, to most, like its growth had been strangled by vines, but Flynt remembered the castle garden. Might this be the sign he had been promised?

Not far from the tree was a tiny, overgrown deer trail, and he dismounted and led Thunder along it into the forest. It was a dangerous decision that might well get him hopelessly lost, but the tree was the only possible sign he had seen, and he had no choice but to investigate.

The little trail forked and crossed with others, but every time he felt sure he was lost he spotted a twisted branch or forked trunk that set him right again. 

Thunder was antsy, unhappy with the dense undergrowth pushing in from either side, and the growing darkness as the day wore into evening. Flynt didn’t much care for it either; it was hot and close, and the bushes were infested with small, buzzing insects that flew in his eyes. 

His waterskin was empty, drained within an hour of leaving the woodchip path, and he hoped he would find some better source of water than the rain collected by the larger leaves before darkness fell. For that matter, he also didn't relish the thought of trying to force his way through such thick undergrowth in the dark.

It was a relief when his wandering finally led him out into a clearing. He could hear the welcome sound of water nearby, and his parched throat redoubled its complaints at the sound.

The falling sun lit a small farmstead; a lean-to stable and fenced garden with neat rows of leafy vegetables growing beside a wood-built house. A brown-haired man sat peacefully on a bench outside the door, whittling a piece of pale wood with a small knife.

Flynt walked hesitantly closer, almost sure of who he had found, but it was still a shock when the woodsman looked up and he recognised the former king.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lost are found, and there is much to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my tiny crew of readers, particularly Queen_Valkyrie, who was so enthusiastic about the end of the last chapter. I had no intention of posting more so soon until I read that comment!

Fray looked older, leaner, and his cheeks were thick with dark hair, but he was still very plainly the sleepy-eyed man in the royal family portrait.

‘Are you going to kill me?’ Fray asked him, sounding unconcerned either way.

Flynt shook his head mutely.

‘In that case, do you want a drink?’

Flynt just looked at him for a long moment, struggling to understand his calm reaction.

‘Are you in the habit of offering drinks to strangers who wander into your hidden home?’ he asked.

‘No, but you’re hardly a stranger, Flynt Coal,’ Fray said with a flashing grin. ‘I’ve heard about you poking around the villages, asking questions. I knew you were looking for me.’

‘You knew I’d find you today?’

Fray set his whittling aside and tucked the knife away, getting to his feet more carefully than Flynt would have expected from a man who still appeared to be in the prime of life. 

‘As king, I had oversight of all of Alcanar, and even some reach across the seas,’ he said, with the faint wistfulness of something long since lost. ‘Without the crown, my flair is much more limited, but I still saw you today before you had even left the wood path. The trail of twisted trees was meant for a friend of ours, not that she’s ever visited. I’m impressed that you noticed it.’

‘So you just let me come,’ Flynt said wonderingly. ‘What if I had meant to kill you?’

‘That reminds me,’ Fray said. He turned to the forest, out beyond the garden, and gave a piercing whistle. ‘Val, come and meet our guest!’

There was a moment’s pause, then a sandy-haired young man in mottled green appeared from the trees, as sudden as a ghost. Flynt would never have found him if he hadn’t chosen to reveal himself.

A bow was in his hand, a quiver of arrows at his hip, and he had the strong limbs and broad shoulders of one who had been well trained in their use. If he had any skill at all, he could have killed Flynt as soon as Fray was in danger.

Fray chuckled at Flynt’s disconcerted expression. ‘I’m not entirely reckless. I have reason to believe I can trust you, but in the end you’re still here because Erryan wants my head on a stick.’

‘I can’t argue with that, but I promise that I’m not here to hurt you today,’ Flynt said.

‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ Fray said, his tone thick with sarcasm.

The young man joined them, and Flynt offered his hand.

‘You must be Valaryan,’ he said.

‘Just Val,’ the man corrected, and clasped Flynt’s forearm. He squeezed just tightly enough to be a warning, displaying impressive wiry strength, then let go. ‘Valaryan’s too fancy for a woodsman.’

His voice was light, but there was worry in his green eyes. No matter how relaxed his father was, Val plainly didn’t like Flynt finding their home, and his forays with the green-clad bandits could hardly have made him more inclined to trust. For a young man he had seen a lot of danger, and Flynt found he could relate, even if Val’s banditry would usually have put them on opposite sides of the law.

‘Let’s get your horse settled,’ Fray said, gesturing lazily to the little stable.

Flynt followed him as he unbolted the half-door, and found a fat brown milk cow lying down in one end of the stable. She didn’t so much as stir at the sight of them, just flicked her ears when Fray affectionately petted her massive head.

Flynt unsaddled his horse and took off her bridle while Val pulled a generous measure of hay from the attached store for her. Along with the deep trough of water, it should keep her happy enough. When he had freed her from her tack she went over and sniffed at the cow, but neither one seemed bothered by the other, and when they left her attention was firmly on the food.

The whole business was bizarrely domestic, given that this was the royal family, and Flynt was a direct threat to the quiet life they seemed to have built in exile.

It was almost a relief to open the door of the house and be abruptly stopped by the blade of a short sword. It was much more the reaction he had expected.

Talon eyed him suspiciously as he instinctively raised his hands in a display of peaceful intent. She too was recognisable from her portrait, blonde hair braided to keep it out of her face, her bare arms strongly muscled despite her thin frame. Only the deep lines around her eyes showed that over a decade had passed since that painting had been finished.

‘He promised not to kill us today, love,’ Fray said from behind him, sounding amused.

‘And what about tomorrow?’ Talon asked, not lowering the sword an inch.

‘Not tomorrow either,’ Flynt promised. ‘I want to talk, that’s all.’

Talon stared him down for a moment longer, then abruptly sheathed the sword and laid it on a table beside the door.

‘You trust too easily,’ she said to Fray.

‘I haven’t been wrong yet.’

With the threat of the sword gone for the moment, Flynt had time to look around.

The main room of the house was cluttered, the cushioned benches, battered chairs and big, scrubbed wooden table scattered with the traces of people living in close quarters; discarded clothes, bits of whittling, arrow heads, pressed flowers, half-eaten cornbread. A few precious books were on a shelf in the far corner, beside a narrow stair that he assumed led up to the bedrooms. 

A doorway to his right showed a glimpse of a kitchen with a clay oven, and he could smell some kind of soup or stew slowly cooking, filling the house with a savoury, meaty scent that might have been venison.

Talon gestured him imperiously to the chairs around the big table, and he went, setting his saddle bag beside the table leg. 

Val unstrung his bow and laid it and his quiver by the door, while Fray ducked into the kitchen and emerged with a bottle of something and five cups. Flynt hadn’t seen a fifth person, but if the rest of the family were alive and well, he assumed Cetine must be around somewhere.

‘So, you found us,’ Fray said, when they were all seated at the table and he had poured corn beer for them all. ‘What do you want?’

Flynt thought carefully before he answered that, rolling the thick, sweet beer across his tongue.

‘Erryan thinks you might be alive. He dragged me into investigating because I can always tell when people are lying, and when I couldn’t give him definite answers from anything I learned in Ciquade, I came in search of the bandits. I wanted to see if any of them knew more than rumours about you. He warned me not to be away too long, and I’ll have to go back sooner rather than later. The problem is that I don’t know what to tell him.’

‘What does that mean? Aren’t you going to tell him where we are?’ Val asked, harsh and annoyed.

‘Do you want me to?’ Flynt countered at once, bringing the young man up short. ‘I don’t think I want to. I never wanted anything to do with the mad king, and the more I’ve learned, the less I want to help him. I’m stuck – I can’t tell him I’ve found nothing, and I don’t think I actually want him to find you. The keep is thick with fear of Erryan, but after ten years under his heel Quiline still speaks well of you.’

‘Why did you come looking in the right place, then?’ Talon asked.

Flynt’s lip twisted. ‘Stubborn curiosity? It’s a key failing of thieftakers; we can’t stand not knowing things. Or perhaps I hold some hope that it isn’t just a rumour, and you might really be thinking of retaking the throne. There’s certainly been a lot of bandit activity tied to your colours.’

Fray reached out and smacked Val across the back of the head at that.

Val squawked in protest, but didn’t look sorry.

‘Kings don’t mean as much in the deep forest. We were doing well enough, hidden away, until Val got ideas and started stirring up shit in the villages,’ Fray said. He mostly sounded amused, but there was a trace of old annoyance, and Flynt was willing to bet that there had been some ferocious arguments when Valaryan and his bandits first began attracting attention.

‘But now he’s stirred it, I... I won’t deny that we’ve thrown around the idea of a coup,’ Talon said cautiously. ‘There’s been a surprising amount of support for the idea.’

‘Erryan’s reputation doesn’t make him any friends, and believe me, it’s well earned,’ Flynt said, suppressing a shudder. ‘I’m not surprised that people would prefer to see the crown returned to the Lanosos, but it wouldn’t be easy to do.’

‘Why else do you think we haven’t tried it?’ Val said huffily.

Fray regarded Flynt with great interest, his sleepy eyes surprisingly perceptive.

‘You might be what we were waiting for,’ he said, and Flynt felt a shiver of foreboding run up his spine. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t known that he was getting himself deeper into trouble with every moment he spent with the old king, but he didn’t like the suggestion that he might get caught in the very centre of an attempt on the crown.

‘I work for Erryan,’ he reminded them.

Talon smirked. ‘But you don’t want to. Whatever he has on you, we can try to help.’

Flynt shook his head immediately. ‘It’s not like that. He’s got nothing on me, no family in danger or anything of that sort. It’s just that he’s impossible to refuse. You don’t know what his flair is, do you?’

Val leaned forward, eyes wide with interest. ‘We don’t, but we’ve been trying to find out. People who’ve talked with him directly will never deal with anyone sympathetic to us.’

‘That’s because they’re terrified, and rightly so. Erryan can make you see things, believe things that aren’t real, and he’ll do it on a whim,’ Flynt said, his tongue turning thick and stumbling as he remembered how that had felt. ‘They’re never nice things, either. The first time – the first time I met him he warned me not to cross him by making me believe I was being eaten alive by a thousand poisonous spiders. Of course it wasn’t real, but it hurt as if it was. I remember it as though it was.’

There was a short, horrified silence as they contemplated that.

‘Lares, no wonder no one would talk,’ Val said, slumping back in his chair.

‘He does it even to those closest to him,’ Flynt said. ‘It’s like he can’t help it, or doesn’t care to. There are two warriors who are with him almost all the time, the closest people he has to friends, I think, but he’s tortured them with the same kind of horrors. If he had genuine reason to hurt you, you wouldn’t get within ten feet before he turned your mind inside out.’

‘A flair like that, with the crown’s power behind it...’ Fray said, sounding sick. ‘It’s a fucking miracle he hasn’t taken over the whole world.’

‘He must have limits,’ Talon reasoned. ‘Distance, or number of people he can influence.’

‘Probably, but I won’t volunteer to find out what they are,’ Flynt said firmly.

The front door opened and Flynt tensed, but the family didn’t react at all. A young woman came in, and he realised they must have been expecting her return. Her resemblance to Talon was clear; the same blonde hair, slender frame and open features.

‘I didn’t know we were expecting a guest,’ Cetine said, hanging her mud-splattered coat by the door and coming to join them at the table. Val pushed a cup of beer to her, and she drank with the pleasure of one quenching a deep thirst. Wherever she had been, Flynt suspected she had travelled a long way to get back.

‘How did it go?’ Talon asked.

Cetine smiled. ‘She’ll be fine. And I only used a few days to do it. There’s a lot of healing still to do, but once the immediate danger was past I thought it best she keep the time.’

‘She’ll thank you for that when the babe is older,’ Fray agreed.

Flynt considered that hint of events he hadn’t witnessed. Cetine had a flair for healing, as Quiline had said, and she clearly used it to help other people living in the forest, but it seemed that unlike Rosyr’s medicinal work it drew its power from the patient. Her miracles came at a cost.

‘You healed Fray after Erryan attacked him, didn’t you?’ he asked her.

Cetine looked curiously at him. ‘We never talk about that. Who are you?’

‘My name is Flynt Coal. I’m a thieftaker, and I’ve been looking for your family.’

‘Erryan sent him,’ Val said gruffly.

Cetine frowned. ‘Then why are you talking to him?’

‘He isn’t working willingly,’ Fray said, just as Talon said ‘He’s been harmless enough so far. We’ll kill him later if we must.’

Flynt found that less than comforting, but he couldn’t deny that she was only being sensible.

‘I came to find out if Fray was still alive,’ Flynt told her. ‘And since I know Erryan wounded him, and you were just talking about healing, I’m sure it’s thanks to you that he’s still here.’

‘I suppose it is,’ Cetine said, though she sounded less than proud of that fact.

‘It absolutely is,’ Fray said, with much more certainty.

‘What happened?’ Flynt asked. He had come so far on his search that it would have been impossible for him not to ask. _Even if it’d be safer for all of us if I left right now and forgot this place._

Fray let out a long, slow breath, heavy with memory. 

‘He came to me in the guise of one of my own guards, wearing a green coat he must have stolen from some poor bastard on the walls. The gate had been breached, the castle was in utter chaos, and I’d retreated to the throne room for a minute’s peace so I could get a good oversight of the whole picture. He came in, acting panicked, giving a report on the fighting. I only realised who he was when he tore the crown from my head.’ 

The weary man shook his head and took another long pull of his drink. The memory visibly pained him, etching the lines in his forehead ever deeper as he spoke. 

‘You have to understand, the crown works with the monarch. It amplified my flair, and having that link severed so abruptly was like a hammer to the face. I drew my sword, but I was too dazed to be any match for him.’

‘How did you survive?’ It seemed a miracle that Erryan hadn’t killed him outright.

Fray huffed. ‘Chance. Or perhaps his own arrogant cruelty. He sliced me open from hip to hip, but when he was sure I wasn’t a threat he didn’t bother finishing me off. He put the crown on his head as I watched from the floor, and I knew that if the crown was lost, the keep was lost. I only wanted to find my family and try to get them out. I crawled from the throne room with my guts in my hands, and the madman just watched me go and laughed at my struggle.’

Flynt nodded slowly. ‘I’ve been investigating, looking into every aspect of that night, but I still find it incredible that you managed to escape the castle in that state.’

Fray chuckled darkly. ‘Oh, I didn’t. I was half-way down the first corridor when I collapsed.’ 

‘I found him,’ Talon said, sounding sick even at the memory. ‘I was roaming the halls, taking on any attackers I saw, and I found him lying in his own blood. I scooped up the pieces and took him up to our rooms, where the children were hiding.’ She gave a bitter sort of laugh. ‘I must’ve cursed more at him then than in the history of our bond, threatening him with everything I could imagine just to keep him alive.’

Fray smiled fondly at her. ‘I wouldn’t risk your wrath by dropping dead, so it worked. Cetine had healing hands, even then, and she put me back together just enough to stop the bleeding and let me move.’ 

‘It wasn’t perfect work, and I took far more life than I meant to,’ Cetine said, with the weariness of old regret. ‘I panicked, and I didn’t have the control then that I’ve learned since.’

‘You did more than I could have hoped,’ Fray said, looking at her with nothing but honest love in his gaze. ‘What’s five years, or even ten, when I would have died there and then without your help? I lived because of Cetine,’ he told Flynt. ‘But even so, if it hadn’t been for the architect we never would have made it out.’

Flynt sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Quiline. I knew she’d kept something back.’

Fray eyed him shrewdly. ‘It seems you didn’t really want to know, else she could never have hidden that secret.’

It was impossible to deny, so Flynt just shrugged and held out his cup for more beer.

‘She and I will have words when I get back,’ he said, but it didn’t sound like much of a threat.

Fray just laughed and poured him another drink. ‘Give her my good wishes, then.’

‘I had her show me some of the ways out of the castle, but of course she never said which one you used. She managed not to tell me she’d helped you at all! With your injuries barely healed, I’m guessing it was either the passage from the portrait gallery or the old brewery run. Which was it?’

‘Neither. We left via a guardroom,’ Talon said. ‘With everyone running blind in the halls, it was empty, and Quiline pried up the stones and opened a hole in the floor. The first drop down was rough for Fray, but after that it was an easy enough route through the caves. We came out in the yard of an inn on the west side of the hill, and went straight down to the river.’

Flynt frowned. He knew Quiline hadn’t lied to him, but she had somehow managed to leave that passage out of her tour. He thought carefully about everything she had said, and drew another hasty breath in surprise.

‘Oh, she’s good!’ he said, impressed and annoyed all at once. ‘She mentioned another passage, but didn’t show me where it was. She said it was blocked and I knew it wasn’t a lie, so I didn’t think to push it.’

Fray threw back his head and laughed. ‘She didn’t say how long it had been blocked for, did she?’

‘I bet she blocked it herself, too,’ Flynt said, inwardly cursing his own complacence. ‘Lares, she’s a tricky one! I can count on one hand the people I’ve met who can consistently twist their words to slip lies past me, and she’s done it all along.’

Fray was still laughing, wild and unconstrained, drawing wide grins from his family, and the sound was so infectious that Flynt couldn’t help but smile wryly at his own expense.

When the laughter died away, Talon put a finger to her lips, sinking deep in thought.

The family looked to her, waiting to see what she would say.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Val asked as the silence stretched.

‘Quiline,’ Talon said quietly. ‘I thought perhaps she was dead, or she had forgotten us. We waited so long for word from her, and nothing came. But it seems she remembers, and watches our backs from afar.’

Flynt cleared his throat, almost embarrassed in the hush. ‘She told me stories about you, showed me some drawings,’ he said.

‘Perhaps she stayed away for our safety?’ Cetine suggested.

‘And her own,’ Flynt added. ‘If Erryan ever thought her loyalty was in question, it would go badly for her.’

‘Has he tortured her, too?’ Fray asked, looking devastated at the idea.

Flynt’s heart gave a pang, wishing he could give them good news of their old friend. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She never said for sure.’

‘Not for sure,’ Fray repeated, and his sombre face said he knew how little that meant. Quiline was very good at keeping secrets.

‘She’s important,’ Talon said. ‘If she’s still loyal enough to lie to you, she’s the most important person in the world. She’s inside the castle, and knows it better than any of us. She can help.’

Flynt shook his head. ‘You can’t ask that of her. The way things are in that keep, you might as well ask her to slit her own throat, and I don’t know that her loyalty would still run so deep.’

‘What does that mean?’ Fray asked, his eyes flashing at the cheek of a barely trusted stranger speaking ill of a childhood companion.

Flynt spread his hands helplessly. ‘I had to ask her about what happened when the keep fell. She was so cold when she talked about it, like she didn’t care at all.’

Talon gave him a flat look. ‘That castle is her life, surely you learned that much. She grew up there. Almost all of the guards died, and everyone else who wouldn’t bend the knee was killed when Erryan took the place. How many of those people do you imagine Quiline knew? How many were like family to her? If that had happened to you, you wouldn’t talk about it beyond the barest facts either.’

Flynt imagined losing Rosyr and Lion, the only people left whom he cared about, and felt abruptly cold.

‘You’re right, I wouldn’t,’ he allowed. He would barely speak to Rosyr about far less terrible things, even though his friend was willing to listen. 

‘I struggle to read Quiline,’ he confessed. ‘This wouldn’t be the first time my assumptions about her have been wrong.’

Talon nodded, looking mollified. ‘Some people have hidden depths, but the surface of their character is so strong that it’s difficult to see them. Quiline has always been complicated.’

‘And she was trying to lie to me the whole time. That takes effort,’ Flynt conceded. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

To his surprise, it was Fray who spoke up next. ‘Perhaps Quiline would help, if we asked, but you were right – we can’t ask. I won’t have her die for us.’

Talon scowled. ‘She might be our only way in.’

Fray shook his head. ‘We’ll find another.’

Talon drew herself up, shoulders squaring as she prepared to argue, and she was about to speak when Val’s voice deflated her.

‘Let’s not fight,’ he said quickly, glancing anxiously at Flynt, the stranger who had brought such tension with him. ‘Perhaps there’s more we can do now, but we have time to think, don’t we?’

Flynt nodded, though he wasn’t sure the question was aimed at him.

‘I can’t linger too long, but don’t rush on my account.’

Talon pointed a warning finger at Flynt. ‘You’ll linger as long as it takes for us to be sure you’re not going to sell us to Erryan. You’re too dangerous otherwise.’

Flynt felt a twinge of anxiety at the idea of not being allowed to leave, being kept prisoner until long after Erryan had lost patience waiting.

 _But she’s not wrong,_ he thought, _They’d be fools to let me go now without some sort of plan._

Cetine looked around the table and pursed her lips, unhappy with the tension in everyone’s posture. 

‘We should think this over,’ she suggested. ‘But in the meantime, Flynt Coal is a guest, isn’t he?’

Talon glared at Flynt for a moment longer, then sat back in her chair.

‘I suppose he is.’

‘Then we should feed him,’ Cetine said. ‘I’m starved, and I’m sure he is too. We’ve travelled too far to talk in circles all night.’

Fray smiled at his daughter. ‘Of course, where are our manners?’

Val got to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen. There was a clattering of wooden dishes hitting the floor, and Talon hid her face in her hands.

‘I’m fine!’ Val called.

‘Yes, but is the food alright?’ Cetine called back, and got up to see what calamity her gangling brother had caused.

Fray sighed. ‘Absolutely lethal in the woods, purely disastrous anywhere else,’ he told Flynt, shaking his head.

‘He adapted well out here?’ Flynt asked, curious how a boy raised in luxury would have handled the sudden change.

‘Like he was born to the green places. Even the dryads seem to like him,’ Fray said proudly.

‘I wish I could say the same,’ Talon said, pulling a sour face. ‘You’d think they’d appreciate a wood-based flair, but they just seem to resent me messing with the trees.’

‘How often have you encountered dryads here?’ Flynt asked. ‘One of your people in Tausin told me they might have killed two children recently.’

Fray nodded grimly. ‘We think so, but it wouldn’t have been the most local dryad. We see that one pretty often, and it’s as friendly as they get. It was one of the reasons we settled just here. Most likely there’s a roamer around.’

‘Everyone’s keeping a watch for it. I take it you didn’t see anything on your journey?’ Talon asked.

Flynt shook his head. Much as he would like to give them helpful information, he was glad not to have encountered such a hostile creature.

Val returned with a stack of wooden bowls and spoons, and Cetine followed close behind, rags protecting her hands from the hot surface of a large iron pot. The savoury smell intensified as she set it on the table and took off the lid, letting steam billow out of the stew.

Val fetched a ladle and handed it to his father.

Fray served Flynt first, as suited a guest, and Flynt’s stomach growled at the rich scent of meat and onions, flavoured with garlic and sharp coriander, made filling by chunks of plantain and squash. It was only when provided with real food that he realised how hungry he was. There was no satisfaction in dried travelling rations.

It was tempting to dig into his food immediately, but Flynt had some sense of politeness, withered though it was by his usually solitary habits.

‘Thank you, for not stabbing me in the face, and for feeding me,’ he said, as Fray passed round the bowls.

‘I’ll take thanks for not stabbing you just yet, but the food was Fray’s doing,’ Talon said.

‘Today it was,’ Fray said with a shrug, picking up his own spoon. ‘Whoever isn’t busy can throw something together.’

‘But yours always turns out best,’ Cetine said, smiling.

Fray ducked his head, and Flynt was delighted to see that the former king actually looked pleased by the compliment. It was utterly bizarre, after so long thinking of them as a mystery, a lost dynasty to be found, to see the Lanosos as a family. Even Quiline’s stories, hazed in painful memory and distance, had not made them such real people to Flynt. 

_This might be the strangest night of my life,_ Flynt thought, and then abandoned all introspection in favour of savouring his food. 

The fibrous plantains had been simmered soft, and the meat was salty and tender. He accepted a second helping when it was offered, only feeling a little guilty.

‘I don’t want to burden you,’ he said, even as he was handing over his bowl.

‘I saw you coming, remember?’ Fray said. ‘I knew I was cooking for hungry travellers, and we’re doing well enough that you needn’t worry for our stores.’

‘Meat doesn’t keep forever anyway,’ Val said. ‘It’s a waste not to eat what I’ve killed.’

‘What do you usually hunt?’ Flynt asked. He’d spent plenty of time in the forest, but never stayed in one place for long. He was sure that establishing a life among the encroaching trees would be different than snatching food where he could when his supplies ran out.

Val waved a hand. ‘Lots of small deer, wild peccaries, big rodents, capybaras near the waterways – and those are full of fish too – and boas or monkeys if we really can’t find anything else.’

‘We tried sloth once,’ Cetine said, pulling a face.

Val laughed. ‘We learned our lesson on that one. They’re very easy to catch, but there’s a reason most things don’t eat them.’

After they had eaten, Fray refused to go back to talking about Erryan, Quiline, or a possible attempt on the crown, insisting that they needed time to think. Instead, he invited Flynt to tell some lighter story of his travels.

‘You know most of my tales start or end with someone dying, don’t you?’ Flynt pointed out.

‘So do most of the famous stories,’ Fray said cheerfully. ‘Whether it’s a happy story or not depends on who ends up dying, doesn’t it?’

Flynt could hardly argue with that, and he pondered for a minute before telling a story of an encounter with a friendly calpa in the distant swamps of Levantar.

‘What of you?’ he asked, when he had finished. ‘Have you travelled since you came here?’

‘Not much. We’ve been up and down the forest from the mountains almost to Lake Verny, but we’ve hardly left the trees in years,’ Talon said.

‘Before that, though, it was a different matter,’ Fray said. ‘Have you ever been to Fornale?’

‘Many times.’

Fray grinned. ‘I used to love any excuse to visit there. The heat is so pure compared to our wet fug, and the people are absolutely gorgeous.’ He glanced at his bonded and added, ‘Not that there aren’t lovely people here too.’

Talon just rolled her eyes at him.

‘There was a time when I was young that we went hunting for firebirds, and got caught in a sandstorm,’ Fray said. ‘For a whole day we were out in the sand, sheltering among towering pillars of rock, and the friend who I’d persuaded to sneak out with me was adamant that if we walked into the storm with our backs to the wind we could walk back to the palace. In the end I got so sick of arguing back and forth that I said we’d try it.’

‘And could you?’

‘Of course not,’ Fray said with a laugh. ‘We ended up buried up to our chests in sand, and got pulled out by a guard patrol who’d come looking for us. Sometimes, the only thing to do is hide!’

 _But Erryan won’t go away if we just wait,_ Flynt considered saying, then pushed the sobering thought aside. There would be time enough for more difficult discussions. 

After so many days of stress and of travel Flynt needed some pleasant company, and despite their history the Lanosos were easy to be around. He was happy just to listen to them as the evening wore away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to leave until Talon is convinced of his intentions, Flynt has nothing to do but spend time getting to know the elusive family.

Flynt woke with a start, a cry on his lips and his hand already scrabbling for his dagger. His skin crawled, hairs standing on end, and his breath came in short pants as he tried to escape before Erryan’s grasping hands could pull out his brain.

‘Flynt Coal?’ a woman’s soft voice said, and Flynt jerked his head to the side.

The room was small and dim, the shuttered window letting in a bare sliver of morning light, but as the terror of his dream faded, Flynt could make out Cetine’s slender shape at the door.

He brandished his dagger defensively for a moment longer, waiting for some new horror to twist her form, then lowered his weapon and sagged back against the bed.

‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’ he asked roughly, scrubbing one hand over his clammy face.

‘No, I heard you cry out. Are you well?’

Flynt took a few slow breaths, trying to calm his heart and leave the dream behind.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just dreams.’

Cetine hummed quietly. ‘You must have seen a lot of terrible things.’

Flynt gave a bitter chuckle. ‘I suppose I have, though most of them don’t haunt me. Perhaps I’m a terrible person, but having someone play with my brain has shaken me more than any murder.’

Cetine watched him for a moment, and Flynt wished it was light enough for him to read her face.

‘You can sleep a while longer, if you want,’ she said at last. ‘Come and eat when you’re ready.’

‘Thank you,’ Flynt said, and waited for the door to creak closed behind her before he sheathed his dagger and buried his face in the pillow.

There was no chance of sleeping again, and lying in the dark thinking would do nothing to help, so he finally resigned himself to getting up.

The little guest room lit up when he opened the shutters above the bed, letting pale sunlight stream across the bright yellow blanket and rug. The deep brown wood of the floor and walls shone where the light touched it, smooth grained planks carefully laid and polished.

The bed was large enough for two, with a shelf running around the wall above it, but there were only a few feet of space between it and the door, and no other furniture in sight. It was a room meant for fleeting travellers, not for long term house guests, and Flynt guessed that it was usually given to local friends, or the few trusted bandits who worked most closely with their leaders. 

Flynt’s saddlebag was resting beside the bed, and he crouched down to it, pulling out his spare shirt and underclothes. If he was going to be in the Lanosos’ house until they let him leave, the least he could do was not stink of horse and travelling sweat.

Cetine was sitting on one of the cushioned benches against the wall of the living room, eating the insides of a ripe yellow curuba rather messily with her fingers, and she startled and jumped up when Flynt came downstairs. 

He smiled at her, guessing by her guilty look that she’d been told not to eat such sloppy fruit on the cushions.

‘Can I wash in the stream?’ he asked, holding out his spare clothes as proof of intent.

‘Oh, yes,’ Cetine said, ‘There’s soap in the cabinet beside the privy.’

‘Where is everyone?’

Cetine shrugged. ‘Still sleeping. It’s early.’

‘And you didn’t sleep well?’

Cetine waved him off. ‘I slept fine, I’m just an early riser.’

Flynt nodded and walked out, careful to close the front door quietly out of courtesy to those still sleeping inside.

The privy was a squat wooden structure a short distance from the house, and Flynt ducked inside to relieve himself, shovelling a scoopful of fresh dirt down into the hole when he had finished. As Cetine had said, there was a well-sealed cabinet attached to the outer wall of the privy, storage for necessaries like jars of vinegar, clean rags and soap. Flynt took a small chunk of green-tinged soap, edges worn round with use, and walked away from the earthy smell of the privy.

The clearing was beautiful in the cool morning, the dew-wet grass dotted with bright pink and white flowers just beginning to open.

Flynt walked along the fenced edge of the neat garden, breathing in the sharp, fresh scent of the herb beds and the sweet smell of the curuba vines.

The rush and babble of water drew him onward, and he walked down the bank where the stream curved, leaving a shallow, rocky slope down to the water. Flynt noticed long, deep scrapes in the shore, and knew at once that boats had been dragged up and beached there recently, though there were none in sight.

_Faster to go by water than struggle through the trees,_ Flynt thought, and wondered where the stream went. It was not as large as the river in Tausin, but it could easily join that waterway somewhere out of sight.

He stripped down and scrubbed himself, jumping at the touch of cool water until his sleep-warm skin adjusted. It was good to rid himself of the fresh sweat of his nightmares and the stale smell of long days on the road.

When he was clean, he scrubbed down his dirty clothes and laid them out on the grass further from the stream. The growing heat of the day would dry them soon enough.

By the time he got back to the house, the rest of the family had begun their day. There was a small pail of fresh milk set beside the front door, and Talon was opening the stable to let their cow and his horse out to graze in the open grass. The fence would keep them out of the vegetable garden, and their own caution would keep them out of the trees.

‘Is she going to eat my clothes?’ he asked, gesturing back towards his drying laundry.

Talon shook her head. ‘There’s more than enough for her to eat without resorting to your underclothes.’

Flynt picked up the warm milk as he walked back into the house, and Talon gave him a hard look, but she turned away to check on the garden and didn’t try to stop him from taking it to the kitchen.

Fray was crouched in the kitchen, re-kindling embers in the clay oven. 

‘Put it there,’ he murmured, waving a hand at the singed old worktop without looking around.

Flynt did as he’d asked, and waited until Fray was in less danger of braining himself on the top of the oven before he spoke.

‘Can I do anything to help?’

Fray glanced over, not seeming remotely surprised to see him, and Flynt remembered that Fray was a very hard man to catch unaware. 

The older man straightened up with a faint groan and waved Flynt away.

‘I’m fine, go and sit,’ he ordered, taking down a ladle and measuring white corn and brown sugar lumps into a pan. He reached for the fresh milk next, and Flynt guessed that he was making canjica for later in the day.

Flynt left him to his work and went to sit at the table, feeling uncomfortably like he was interrupting the Lanosos’ usual routine. They all knew what daily tasks needed doing, and didn’t need him getting in the way.

Cetine was gone, but Val was lying on one of the cushioned benches against the far wall, one hand over his eyes, as though he resented being awake and out of bed. He turned his head to the side and looked blearily at Flynt as he sat down.

‘Good morning,’ Flynt said politely, and Val huffed.

‘If you like mornings, I’m sure,’ he grumbled.

There was a bowl of curubas, papayas and bananas in the middle of the table, and Flynt stared at it for a moment before deciding they were there to be eaten and taking a piece of fruit.

‘Do you shoot at all?’ Val said as he was eating.

Flynt hastily swallowed a chunk of banana.

‘I can, but I’d never say I was particularly good,’ he said.

‘Come and practice with me, if you like,’ Val offered. ‘It’s always nice to have company.’

Getting out of the house and feeling as though he was doing something sounded excellent, and Flynt gladly agreed. 

Fray eventually came out of the kitchen and threw a wet rag at his son, who caught it clumsily out of the air and rolled off the bench, conceding grudging defeat to the day.

Val gathered his bow and quiver with much griping and sighing, finding a spare short bow for his guest and shambling out of the house.

Flynt was amused to see that once he was outside his grouchiness vanished at once. Val led him eagerly across the clearing to the northern fringe of the forest, where the stumps and branches of cleared trees had been laid out in a series of obstacles. Targets were marked in bright dye on various branches, and Flynt watched with great curiosity as Val stretched out his long limbs and prepared himself to attack them.

Val’s movement was explosive, beginning with a running slide that put him on his knees in front of the closest target. He fired once, then rolled immediately right, slipping round a massive trunk to pop out and fire at targets in opposite directions. He leapt up the stubby branches of the trunk, fired twice at targets on the ground below, then jumped off, caught a branch, swung himself around and landed on his feet with another arrow already nocked.

He turned to Flynt, breathing easily, and laughed at the thieftaker’s shocked expression.

‘How is it that you can move that way, but Cetine doesn’t trust you to carry the supper?’

Val shrugged. ‘If it’s important, I pay attention. This is just practise, yes, but believe me it’s got me out of plenty of trouble.’

‘I can imagine,’ Flynt agreed, thinking how deadly Val could be if he moved with such grace through the forest. Between his mottled green clothes and his simian ease of motion, he would be nigh impossible to see coming.

‘Do you always pick targets in the same order, or is that too easy?’ he asked.

‘It’s always different,’ Val said. ‘They all have numbers in my head, so I’ll stand here and think of a sequence, like “1,7,5,4,2,6,3”, and then move around however I must to reach them in order.’

‘I assume you can do the same thing in the forest, if you must.’

Val nodded. ‘Four people after me, give them numbers, go after them in order. It’s just safer to practice here most of the time.’

‘How many people have you killed?’ Flynt asked flatly. Impressive as his skill was, it bothered Flynt somewhat that Val was, strictly speaking, on the wrong side of the law. If not for the complex history in play, Val and all his bandit friends would be Flynt’s enemies.

Val narrowed his eyes. ‘None that weren’t intent on killing me first. How many have you killed?’

Flynt sighed. ‘More than you, no doubt.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, the two men making an uneasy truce as they reflected on unpleasant memories.

Val inspected the top limb of his bow minutely, checking for faults so he didn’t have to look at Flynt.

‘I don’t know what to think of you,’ he said eventually. ‘You were sent by our enemy, but you clearly aren’t loyal to him. You’re a thieftaker, and probably a good one, if the mad king sought you out in particular, but you aren’t trying to arrest me. You’re plainly a dangerous man, and dangerous to people like me in particular, but mostly you just seem confused and tired.’

Flynt chuckled wryly. ‘I am tired,’ he admitted. ‘Erryan wore me out before I even left the city, and for the first time in my life, I’m not looking forward to going back there. I’d have been wiser to stumble around the woods for a few weeks and never find you, but Erryan isn’t a man you want to fail, and I’m incapable of not solving a mystery if I can. Now I don’t know what to do.’

‘You know too much,’ Val said, and it sounded like sympathy instead of a threat.

‘I suppose I do. I don’t want anything to do with crowns and kings, but I’m up to my neck in this, Lares help me!’

Flynt sat down abruptly on the nearest stump, putting a hand over his face to hide the sudden, raw misery that was sweeping over him.

He closed his eyes and breathed for a moment, wearied by travel and nights of poor sleep, harried by fear and doubt.

‘I’ve always known what to do,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s my gift, I suppose. I can hear the truth of a case, and be sure that I’m punishing the right person. But this – this isn’t a matter for the law. If Erryan had failed, his attack would have been a crime, and he could have been punished for it. Since he won, and took the crown, the law states that whatever he did to get it was justified.’

‘That’s stupid,’ Val said.

Flynt huffed. ‘Probably, but it’s a very old law. When the crown was changing hands every few years, there had to be some way of legitimising the new monarch. Whosoever wears the crown is the just ruler.’

Val was silent for so long that Flynt dragged himself out of his reverie and looked up at him.

The young man looked torn, his brow furrowed and his mouth turned down, and when he spoke it was hesitant.

‘I almost think I shouldn’t say this. I might not like the answer,’ he began. ‘Erryan is your king, by law, and he sent you here. We are his enemies. Shouldn’t that make things simple? You’re sworn to him, aren’t you?’

Flynt sighed and rocked back, staring up at the fringe of the canopy for a moment.

‘It’s simple and it isn’t. Erryan commands me, as he commands any other citizen, but a thieftaker’s oath is to seek justice, not to obey the monarch. What’s bothering me is that I don’t think the two match up here. If it were another king, a less terrible man, then I’d probably gladly do as he asked, but there is nothing about Erryan except his crown that inspires loyalty. What he does with his flair is an abomination. He offers only fear, and I hate him for it.’

‘Then you think our cause is just,’ Val said.

‘I think I do,’ Flynt said hesitantly, then nodded to himself and went on, his certainty growing. ‘The old law is wrong. Fray is the rightful king.’

Val watched him for a moment, then abruptly smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Well, we agree on that much,’ he said. ‘Come then, show me what kind of ally you might be.’

Bemused by Val’s sudden good humour, Flynt could no longer sustain his own grim state of mind. He found himself on his feet and moving almost without intending to stand, and he wondered at the man’s charisma as Val showed him around the practice course, pointing out all the hidden targets.

‘Do you think you can shoot on the move, or would you prefer something a little slower?’ Val asked, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

Flynt bristled slightly, some deep sense of pride sparking into life. Archery was not his primary skill, not as easy as breathing for him as it seemed to be for Val, but he was still not willing to be patronised.

‘I’ll manage,’ he said firmly, and gave the borrowed bow a few practice draws, easing the string back and forth as he plotted a set of targets in his head.

His run was not as graceful as Val’s had been, and he slipped on a branch and almost scraped his face on the bark, but when he came to a halt there were arrows in all five of the targets he had chosen.

‘Not bad!’ Val said, when he lowered his bow and turned back to his starting point. ‘I thought you were going to smash your face there, but you recovered well.’

‘Sorry to deprive you of the entertainment,’ Flynt said archly.

Val laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll fall at some point. Set me a run of targets, won’t you?’

There was something about this more relaxed version of Val which brought out all Flynt’s inner sarcasm and pettiness, and he happily set a horribly complex path through the fallen branches, climbing higher and higher with each shot.

Val just flashed him a grin and set off at once, his face falling into tense concentration as soon as he began.

Not only did he hit every target Flynt had assigned, he did it faster than seemed reasonably possible, and made a rather showy front flip as he jumped off the tallest stump and landed in a crouch beside Flynt.

His face was bright with laughter as Flynt shook his head in disbelief.

‘Your turn!’ Val said happily.

Flynt held up his hands at once. ‘I’ll concede that one,’ he said, bowing to Val. ‘I could perhaps do that at half the speed, but I’d definitely break something if I tried the flip.’

‘I know you were being cheeky, but believe me, I’ve made more difficult shots. I saw no harm in doing my best.’

‘No, of course not,’ Flynt agreed. He was deeply impressed despite himself, struggling to reconcile Val’s cheerfulness and skill with the darker uses of his talent.

‘Perhaps you’ll come out with me, see what I can do in the real forest?’ Val offered.

Flynt frowned. ‘I’ll come hunting animals with you, but only if you stay well clear of travellers. I believe you have a right to retake the crown, but I’m still not comfortable with what you’ve been doing. Banditry is usually something I work very hard to prevent.’

Val nodded at once. ‘Of course, I can see your dilemma. I’d never be so rude as to take a thieftaker out thieving!’

Flynt quirked a smile at the statement, and turned his attention back to the practice course.

‘Will you set me a challenge? Preferably not one which will end in breaking any bones!’

They spent all morning running, climbing and shooting, and as the sun grew ever hotter Flynt found himself sweating and desperate for water. He dearly wanted to stop and cool down, but having already found himself outmatched at archery he was determined that he wouldn’t show any further weakness to Val.

At last, the archer tired, ending a run by sagging against a thick tree trunk and wiping his brow.

‘Enough, enough!’ he cried. ‘I’m going to boil alive if I keep this up.’

Val staggered off towards the stream, and Flynt gladly followed him, laughing when Val pulled off his shirt, flung himself flat on the bank and dunked his entire top half in the swift-flowing water.

Flynt dropped his sweat-damp silk shirt on the grass and crouched down beside him, splashing gloriously cool water over his face and chest.

Val came up spluttering, swiping water out of his wild hair, and sat on the bank, dripping in the sun.

‘I’d never usually practice so long in the heat,’ he admitted. ‘I was waiting for you to call a halt, and you never did!’

Flynt grinned. ‘I was waiting for you to stop first.’

‘We’re a right pair of fools!’ Val said, rolling his eyes. ‘But I suppose I know you could keep up with me in the woods. Not everyone can.’

‘Do you often have someone with you?’

‘If I’m looking for trouble, always,’ Val said. ‘If I’m hunting, not usually, though Cetine or mother hunt sometimes, and they’ve come with me before.’

‘Not your father?’

Val scowled, and Flynt guessed there had been many arguments on the subject. 

‘Never. No doubt he could manage, but why should he make the effort when it’s easier for the rest of us? I won’t have the silly bastard hurt himself out of pride.’

‘Is he still that badly wounded?’ Flynt asked, a little afraid that Fray wouldn’t be capable of helping if there was an attempt to retake the crown.

‘He’s not a cripple,’ Val said at once. ‘I can all but hear you thinking the word, but he isn’t. He’s in pain sometimes, and he moves a little more slowly than most people his age, but he manages just fine. Most of the time you couldn’t tell he was ever hurt at all.’

Flynt smiled, glad to hear it, and Val grinned brightly. His smiles were quick, easily sparked, and Flynt found he liked to see them. Better a smiling, laughing Val than a tense and distrustful one.

‘Hey!’ Fray’s voice called out across the clearing, as though he’d seen them from afar and known he was being discussed.

Flynt whipped round, feeling suddenly guilty, but Val just waved at his father where he stood in the doorway.

‘If you two have finished throwing yourselves out of trees, come and eat!’

‘Can he hear from a distance as well?’ Flynt asked, as they pulled their shirts back on.

Val laughed. ‘No, he can only see us, not hear what we’re saying.’

‘I’m sure you’ve been grateful for that over the years.’

Val made a face. ‘You have no idea. Knowing he might be watching is bad enough. It used to really put me off my stroke,’ he said, with a hand gesture that left no doubt what he meant.

‘Used to?’ Flynt said, chuckling.

‘Oh, I just don’t care anymore. Serves him right if he sees anything!’

~

The corn porridge was thick and sweet, and Flynt and Val ate with the gleeful haste of young people after heavy exertion. 

Cetine returned from foraging while they were still stuffing themselves, dropping a bow by the door and leaving a basket of spiky brown and cream-coloured mushrooms in the kitchen before helping herself to a bowl of canjica.

‘See anything interesting out there?’ Val asked her between mouthfuls.

Cetine shrugged. ‘Plenty of new nests, if you want to go egg collecting. No sign of that roaming dryad.’

Flynt was horrified at the thought of Cetine encountering a hostile dryad alone, as delicate as she seemed in comparison to the rest of the family, but he reminded himself that the Lanosos had lived ten years in the forest, and Cetine clearly spent plenty of time walking the paths alone. None of her family seemed worried, so she must know how to look after herself.

She had carried a bow on this excursion, at least, and Flynt was willing to bet she could out-shoot him.

‘Do you run through Val’s ridiculous obstacle course too?’ he asked.

Cetine laughed. ‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘I like it better when we play hide and go seek in the trees. I’m better at staying still than he is.’

‘Two bloody days she stayed out for once, just so I’d lose the game,’ Val grumbled. ‘Father was losing his mind.’

‘You must be a great asset to the bandits,’ Flynt said, still trying to feel out her part in events. Cetine had been so young when the family vanished that Quiline hadn’t told him much about her, and she wasn’t the little girl she had been back then.

‘I’ve only been out with them once or twice,’ Cetine said. ‘It doesn’t usually turn violent, but the threat is there.’

‘Cetine isn’t a fan of violence,’ Val said, and he sounded almost proud of her for it.

Flynt could understand the feeling – it was always good to know that not everyone was as bloodstained as he was.

‘If you could lay hands on someone who had an arrow in their lung, and be able to feel every bit of the damage it’d done, and the extra damage you were going to have to do to pull it out, then you might understand,’ Cetine said firmly. ‘I’ll shoot for fun, or for food, but I’ve healed too many people to want to harm any.’

Flynt nodded slowly, feeling a sudden surge of respect. He hadn’t really considered what Cetine’s healing flair might feel like to her.

‘Can you heal animals, or does it only work on people?’ he asked curiously. She had mentioned being fine with hunting , but that might be simple pragmatism.

‘People and animals, but not plants,’ Cetine said. ‘Plants have barriers inside them which animals don’t, and I can’t work with them.’

‘You got almost the opposite of your mother’s flair,’ Flynt observed, amused by that parallel.

Cetine grinned. ‘I did. Val got the opposite of father’s flair, too. He can’t see a doorframe until he’s already walked into it!’

Val groaned at the old joke, but it was new to Flynt and he laughed aloud.

‘She’s been dying for someone new to tell that joke for ages,’ he complained. ‘Bloody cruel, I call it, mocking those without flairs of their own.’

‘You’re my brother, I’d mock you even if you had every flair under the sun,’ Cetine pointed out.

Val just crossed his arms and pouted until Cetine relented and reached over to pat him on the head.

‘Poor Val, I’m so terrible to you,’ she said in syrupy sweet tones. ‘I’ll buy you a mug of chocolate to make up for it, how does that sound?’

Val perked up at once. ‘I suppose it’d go some way toward salving the wound,’ he said, trying his best to still sound affronted and not succeeding at all.

‘Where can you buy chocolate around here?’ Flynt asked.

‘We have cocoa, we could make our own, but the tavern-keeper in Tausin has a family recipe she refuses to share with anyone. It’s the best chocolate I’ve ever drunk.’

Flynt hummed. ‘My friend’s family grows cocoa, and their chocolate is the best I’ve ever tasted. I’d like to see how they measure against each other.’

‘Come to Tausin with us, then,’ Cetine offered. ‘We’re probably going tomorrow.’

‘It’s a long way to walk for a cup of chocolate,’ Flynt said, wondering what other business they had there. 

Val laughed. ‘Who said anything about walking? That’s a fool’s game! We’ll go by water, it barely takes half a day.’

Flynt remembered the traces of beached boats at the bend in the stream, and nodded to himself. Of course they wouldn’t struggle through the forest if they had a faster way. There was only one thing that eluded him:

‘I didn’t see any boats,’ he said. ‘Only scrapes where they’d been.’

Val narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Of course you noticed. Cursed thieftakers!’ It was said in jest, but there was a touch of bite to the words. A man who spent so much time hiding was bound to resent anyone who looked too closely.

‘We hid them when father said you were coming,’ Cetine said. ‘Not that it mattered, apparently! We’ll show you tomorrow.’

~

They passed the sweltering afternoon in slower pursuits, sitting in the shade of the forest’s edge. Val and Cetine told Flynt about some of the strangest plants and mushrooms that the forest could produce, things that he had never encountered in his hasty travels. 

Both of them could draw passably well, and they sketched out shapes in a path of soft earth, showing him the extravagant fan-fungi and pitcher plants to look out for.

‘I’m rarely still for long when I’m out here,’ Flynt explained. ‘Usually I’m actively chasing someone, and I’m not likely to notice a fungus unless someone tries to poison me with it!’

The siblings laughed, and Flynt felt a strange surge of affection for the pair. Despite his precarious position in their home, and the pressing dangers awaiting him outside it, he found them cheerful company, easy and enjoyable to speak with. It made him wish that he could have met them some other way, without the burden of Erryan’s wrath or the crown to consider.

They withdrew into the house as the evening closed in and the number of insects swelled to intolerable levels. 

Fray and Talon were inside, pressed companionably close on a cushion as they worked together on what looked like a new rug made from scraps of rag.

Fray smiled when the three youngsters walked in together, and Flynt was pleased that even Talon didn’t look actively annoyed to see him.

‘Check the oven, will you?’ Fray said, speaking to all three of them, not caring which of them actually completed the task. Flynt was oddly happy to be included. ‘I don’t want the sweet potatoes to burn, and my hands are a little tied up.’

He lifted his arms slightly, and sure enough the rug came with them, the new strands wound around his fingers.

Cetine and Val both turned for the kitchen at once, and collided. Val tripped and barely caught himself on the back of a chair, leaving his giggling sister to go and check on their supper.

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ Val said, so glumly that Flynt felt briefly bad for smiling at his mishap.

_It’s just so at odds with his grace when he’s actually paying attention,_ Flynt thought. _It’s like the difference between watching Rosyr advise someone on medicine and his total lack of conversational skills otherwise._

Fortunately, Val recovered his good humour almost at once, and set about teasing his parents for being tied together much more literally than usual.

By the time they were sitting down for supper, everyone was in good spirits, and the looming matter of their futures seemed to have been genuinely forgotten, rather than forcibly set aside. 

Flynt felt bold enough to speak fondly of Ciquade when it was mentioned, confident that he wasn’t going to spark some terrible memory that would bring down their mood, and Fray seemed to appreciate the small pieces of news about his former city.

The plan to visit Tausin was solidified, and Flynt went to bed already excited, curious to observe how Val and Cetine acted in the village.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk with Talon, a trip to Tausin, and news which might cut Flynt's time in the forest short.

Talon pulled him aside before they left in the morning, asking him to help chop more wood for the oven, and Flynt agreed at once. Talon remained the most reserved towards him, and he was glad to do something helpful in exchange for his meals, particularly if it might garner her approval.

Unfortunately, Talon didn’t let him wield the axe himself. Helping her chop wood mostly consisted of holding the less stable branches still while she swung a heavy blade horribly close to his fingers.

It was a test, Flynt was sure of it, and he did his best not to flinch. He had to trust that Talon would only hurt him if she actually meant to.

_Not that that’s very reassuring,_ he thought, turning his face aside as splinters flew everywhere. Of all the family, Talon was sharpest and seemed to trust him least, and he couldn’t be sure if she disliked him in particular, or if she just didn’t trust anyone as easily as the rest of the Lanosos.

Flynt generally didn’t care overmuch whether the people he worked with liked him or not, but he found himself strangely eager to develop a bond with the exiled royal family. He could rationalise that urge to seek approval with the fact that they would never let him leave otherwise, but in his heart he knew there was some deeper reason. 

Perhaps Erryan’s ill-treatment had left him desperate for reassurance that there could be someone better to follow, or perhaps he hoped that making new friends would make his trials on the case worthwhile. Either way, Talon was the person he had to prove himself to, and she intimidated and interested him in equal measure.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d need to chop wood,’ he said, when they were dragging another branch into place and the axe was safely away from his hands. 

‘What does that mean?’ Talon asked.

‘Well, can’t you split it with your flair?’

Talon shook her head. ‘If it was freshly felled I probably could, but this is old. I can’t do anything with dead wood.’

‘Living wood only, I see. I suppose that makes sense; your flair comes from the forest, doesn’t it?’ 

Talon dipped her chin in agreement. She picked up the axe but leaned on the haft for a moment rather than swinging it, inviting him to go on.

‘So did you leave here and go to live in Ciquade?’ Flynt asked, curious enough to overcome his wariness of her. ‘Forgive me, but high-born families don’t live out here. How was it that you met the king?’

‘I didn’t leave, not until after we were already courting, and I’m most certainly not from a powerful family. Fray came here. We met by pure chance long before he was king,’ Talon said, and Flynt was surprised and pleased to realise that she was being honest with him. 

‘He’d come hunting in the deep woods, like the idiot he is, and ran into some bad business with the dryads. I rescued him, and he declared eternal love on the spot,’ Talon said, shaking her head in fond amusement. ‘He stayed in my village for a while to heal up, and it only took me a few days to realise that he really meant it. He’s always made up his mind about people very quickly.’

Flynt remembered the easy way Fray had accepted his presence, and could only agree.

‘I’m sure your familiarity with the forest helped, when you had to go into hiding.’

Talon frowned. ‘It did and it didn’t. We couldn’t go too near my family or anyone else who might recognise me, so we had to be careful where we settled. But I knew how to live out here, and Fray didn’t. Getting this place established was a lot of work.’

‘They’d have been lost without you,’ Flynt said, sure it was true.

Talon snorted. ‘Don’t flatter me, Flynt Coal.’

‘Is it flattery if it’s true?’ Flynt asked, daring a small smile.

Talon rolled her eyes, but she seemed at least a little amused, and Flynt would take what he could get.

~

The trip to Tausin began with a precarious walk up the edge of the stream, ducking under hanging branches and thorny vines to reach the spot where the boats were hidden.

Two large, open canoes made of thin strips of pitch-coated wood were beached upside down in a tiny open spot between two giant trees, entirely invisible from almost every direction.

Val and Cetine flipped them with ease, sending beetles and centipedes scuttling away from the sudden light.

_Barely two days hidden and already things have moved in,_ Flynt thought, marvelling at how quickly the forest creatures claimed everything for their own.

‘I hope you’ve handled a paddle before,’ Cetine said, pulling a wide, flat oar from inside one of the canoes and offering it to him.

‘A few times,’ Flynt assured her as he took it. ‘Mostly in Levantar, but I’ve taken boats through the forest before.’

‘Don’t whack any floating logs and you’ll be fine,’ Val said, and grinned wolfishly. 

Flynt wasn’t particularly experienced with boats, but even he knew that something which looked like a floating log quite often wasn’t so harmless. There were caimans lurking in many of Alcanar’s rivers, though the giant, scaly beasts seemed to prefer larger, slower waterways. Flynt hadn’t thought to see any on this trip.

‘Aren’t they a little big for this stream?’ he asked.

‘Adults are, babies aren’t,’ Cetine said, as they pushed one of the canoes into the water. ‘And we’re going to join a larger river very soon.’

Flynt climbed carefully into the canoe as Val held it against the current, trying his best not to set the boat rocking as he shifted. Cetine stepped in with considerably more grace, settling in front of him. There were low slats of wood for them to sit on, keeping their backsides out of the puddle of water that would inevitably collect in the bottom of the hull.

They pushed off into the stream and backed water, each paddling on their own side, waiting for Val. The gangling man pushed his own boat off the bank and jumped in, sending up a slight splash as he centred his weight. The canoe tilted alarmingly, but Val kept it upright, and immediately dug his oar into the water to shoot ahead of them.

‘Let’s see if two oars can make up for the extra weight! Last to the river buys supper!’ he called over his shoulder, laughing as Cetine cursed at his retreating back.

Flynt gamely dug in his paddle, matching pace with Cetine as she chased her brother with all the fury of sibling rivalry.

Val was paddling as though an anaconda was swimming after him, his oar flashing from side to side to keep his boat balanced and straight. At first, it seemed he would be impossible to catch, but little by little their two oars proved better than his one. 

Flynt and Cetine eased close behind him, then caught a boost from the current and slipped past. Cetine laughed as her brother squawked in outrage and paddled even faster, trying to overtake them again. 

The swift current and their effort sent them barrelling downriver, and Flynt let the exhilaration of the race give him strength to row as hard and fast as he could.

His arms burned and his breath was coming in swift gasps by the time they joined the larger river, water churning and splashing as the two waterways joined. 

They reached the end of the tributary and shot out into calmer water a few boat-lengths ahead of Val, and Cetine whooped in triumph.

Flynt steered them towards the centre of the river, wary of fallen branches and submerged roots at the edges of the waterway, but as soon as he felt sure they were safe he turned to see Val’s reaction.

Val looked furious and dismayed at once, his mouth open as he panted for breath, his brow deeply furrowed. He let his paddle fall from his slack hands into the bottom of his boat, raising his arms with a yell of theatrical anguish that set Flynt and Cetine laughing. 

He gave himself a moment to catch his breath, then took up his oar and steered to come alongside them.

‘I thought I had you!’ he complained.

‘We aren’t that much heavier,’ Cetine told him. ‘And two oars are always better than one!’

‘We’ll see! We’ll switch for the return journey, see if Flynt can beat the two of us.’

Flynt shook his head at once. ‘No, thank you!’

‘We’re not racing upstream,’ Cetine agreed. ‘The victory isn’t worth the effort!’

Val pouted. ‘Oh, fine. Supper is on me tonight, I suppose.’

They idled on the river after their wild race, keeping their boats well away from the banks and letting the broad expanse of water ease them towards Tausin.

The forest pressed close on either side, scrub and bushes forming an almost solid wall of growing green interspersed with dark trunks. Massive trees grew arched roots out into the river, and small, slick-furred rodents scurried and swam in their shelter. 

The thick canopy overhead was broken in the centre of the river, letting a narrow ribbon of shimmering sunlight dance on the surface. The water itself seemed alive, with blue dragonflies flitting low around their boats and shoals of red and silver fish rising suddenly into sight when they swam close to the surface. 

A small flock of bright blue and yellow parrots rose out of one of the overhanging trees and followed them for a while before settling again, the intelligent birds intrigued by the travellers. There were capybaras grazing on the banks in places, their large brown shapes half hidden by foliage, and from time to time Flynt spotted long black ridges in the water that might have been caimans, though he had no desire to get close enough to check. 

They passed a few scattered farmsteads on the banks, tiny spots of cleared land enclosed by the forest, each with their own boats moored at tiny jetties that jutted out from the shore, or beached where the slope of the bank was shallow.

Cetine waved cheerfully to the only person they saw up close, a grey-haired woman who was sitting on a jetty fishing for piranhas.

The woman waved back, shouting a greeting to Cetine by name, and Flynt huffed.

‘Everyone knows everyone out here, don’t they?’ he said.

‘We’re few enough,’ Cetine said. ‘And we’re isolated; who else could we turn to when things go wrong?’

‘People must be very grateful to have you around,’ Flynt said.

Cetine shrugged. ‘I help where I can, but most things aren’t worth the cost of my healing. I’m a last hope, not an everyday healer, and I know I make some people nervous.’

‘Why’s that?’ Flynt asked. Flairs were common, and even a powerful one like Cetine’s wasn’t something that should inspire fear.

‘It’s not a forest flair,’ Cetine said. ‘Healing flairs that work with plants are normal out here, but I draw from people.’

‘It’s a city flair,’ Flynt said, with sudden understanding. Cetine’s flair, his own, and Erryan’s all worked directly with people, without any natural medium in between. Such flairs came only from the Lares of ancient cities, where people had shaped the land for so many centuries that even the local spirits had changed, attuned to their occupation.

‘Exactly, and some worry that the local Lares here won’t like it,’ Cetine agreed. ‘Usually they get over their fear when they’re desperate enough.’

Flynt chuckled. ‘People usually do. Everyone’s pleased to see me when there’s been a murder, but they’re eager to get rid of me otherwise.’

‘Do you ever stay in one place, or are you forever moving?’ Cetine asked.

‘I sometimes stay in Ciquade for a few months, working with the city guard, but I’m probably out of the city more often than not. The past few years, it seems more and more people have heard my name, and I’ve been asked to travel to help them.’

‘You’re good at what you do,’ Cetine said.

‘Yes,’ Flynt said, without a trace of arrogance. It was a fact, and one he usually felt justified in being proud of.

_Even when it gets me into tangled messes like this,_ he thought wryly. The more time he spent with the Lanosos, treating them as tentative allies rather than his quarry, the easier he felt in himself. Using his gifts for Erryan had never sat right at all.

~

The wooden bridge in Tausin was visible long before they reached it, a thick line of dark timber that loomed above the river ahead of them. The water churned and foamed around the massive support beams that were buried deep in the riverbed, and even though there was more than enough space for them to pass beneath the bridge, Flynt found himself hoping they would halt before they had to tackle those treacherous currents. The canoes seemed sturdy, but he would rather not test how well they stood up to a collision with the pillars. 

To his relief, there was a jetty on the south bank a short distance from the bridge, and he gladly followed Cetine’s lead when she began to steer towards it.

They left the boats tied up at the jetty and walked into the village, joining the trickle of travellers on the stone main road.

‘I’m sure you didn’t come here just for chocolate,’ Flynt said, when neither sibling made any move to state their business in the village. ‘I can make myself scarce, don’t worry.’

Val chuckled. ‘The fact that you’re with us has already been noted by every local gossip, I’m sure. It doesn’t bother me all that much – you’re going to be working with us anyway.’

Flynt shrugged helplessly. ‘Apparently,’ he said, torn between being glad of Val’s trust and wanting nothing to do with any attempt on the crown.

‘We need to buy a few things, but mostly we’re here to speak to whichever friends are around,’ Cetine said, as they moved aside to let a creaking wagon full of stone creep past. ‘There’s always information to be had here, and I’ll not say no to good company and beer while we’re getting it.’

Flynt laughed aloud. ‘Sitting in the tavern sharing drinks, then?’ he said, amused by how similar it was to his own method of gathering information.

Cetine grinned. ‘Yes, and playing games if anyone’s offering.’

‘I owe Mariel a rematch at Crown if she’s here today,’ Val said. ‘You should play with us, Flynt. I’d love to see if a thieftaker is better at spotting bluffs.’

‘I can’t play bluffing games at all,’ Flynt said. 

Crown was played all over Alcanar, using a deck of cards or set of wood slips with painted symbols. Every player had six cards in their hand, and the ability to lie about what they were holding unless their opponent had a crown – a card which forced them to give up a requested card. The object of the game was to gather a related set of four cards by drawing from the deck or stealing directly from other players. 

Unfortunately for Flynt, the entire bluffing element of the game, where players tried to deceive each other and encourage theft from others, was entirely transparent. There was very little challenge involved when it was impossible for anyone to lie.

‘I’m sure you’re not that bad at them,’ Val said breezily, pulling open the door to a shop that seemed to sell everything from lamp oil to nails.

‘No, it’s not that. No one can lie to me,’ Flynt said. In real life, there were ways for the clever and the careful to mislead him, but the game was usually too blunt for that.

‘Ah, confidence, I like it!’ Val exclaimed, and Flynt suddenly wondered if the man was being intentionally dense. He was fairly sure he had mentioned several times that lying to him was essentially pointless, but perhaps he hadn’t been clear that it was actually a flair.

_Well, he’ll see soon enough,_ Flynt thought, resigning himself to at least one very pointless game.

When they had stocked up on small necessities which the family couldn’t make at home, the trio walked across the main road to the tavern.

The bar inside was deserted, but there was a hum of voices coming from the garden, and as soon as they had beer in hand they eagerly left the stuffy room. 

Val and Cetine made a beeline for a round table at the far end of the garden, in the shade of a line of rubber trees. Three dark-haired young people were already sitting there, sharing plates of seared meat, tubers and green leaves, and they greeted the siblings with enthusiasm, rising to clasp hands or embrace them. 

Flynt recognised one of them, the solidly built young woman named Min whom he had encountered during his last visit to Tausin. The other woman with her was noticeably pregnant, and Flynt presumed that this was the bonded that Min had mentioned. 

Flynt saw cautious recognition in Min’s eyes when she spotted him, but still he hung back a little, not wanting to intrude as Cetine and Val greeted old friends. 

However, Val was having none of his reticence.

‘This is Flynt Coal, from Ciquade. An acquaintance at present, but hopefully a friend soon enough,’ Val told them, dragging Flynt down to sit at the table with them despite his best efforts to melt into the background.

‘Flynt, these are friends of ours; Tyr, Min and Heron. We have many interests in common,’ Cetine said, and the significance of her words was obvious. The trio were bandits, or at least dabbled in thievery.

_I should probably be glad I’m not hunting for thieves,_ Flynt thought. _They’re easy enough to find, but I’d be arresting almost everyone who lives around here!_

‘I’ve met you before,’ Min piped up. ‘If I’d known you knew Val and Cetine I’d have been more friendly!’

‘I didn’t exactly know them yet,’ Flynt said. ‘And you seemed like friendly enough company to me anyway. I assume Heron is your bonded?’

‘That’s right,’ Min said, and her gaze noticeably softened when she glanced at her lover.

‘My best wishes to you,’ Flynt told Heron politely. Childbearing was dangerous, and it was customary to wish a pregnant woman well. ‘I hope Min took you home a good haul of cocoa.’

Heron laughed. ‘She did, thank you.’

‘Perhaps you can win your own today,’ Cetine suggested.

‘Of course, what’s the game?’ Heron said at once.

‘Crown, probably, but there’s time for that later. What can you tell us?’ Val asked.

Tyr glanced sidelong at Flynt, his brow furrowed.

‘Are you sure you want to talk about this?’ he asked.

Flynt tried to get up and leave them to talk, but Cetine spoke before he could move.

‘Yes, we’re sure. I think it will do Flynt good to understand our work a little better,’ she said.

Flynt was suddenly glad for the space between their table and the rest, and wondered if it had been deliberately positioned under the trees to give them privacy as well as shade. He hadn’t expected their talks to be so public, but either the group were confident that they wouldn’t be overheard, or they were much more reckless than Flynt had thought.

Min shrugged. ‘As you wish. I have some big news, actually. A few friends of ours have made a very successful strike on the road just north of here. A treasury messenger, travelling in secret with two saddlebags full of opals. They say they took at least ten pounds of gems from her, enough to keep us fed and armed for a very long time.’

‘Or fund significant expansion of our forces,’ Val said excitedly. ‘Bloody hell, that’s good news.’

‘I wonder what the gems were meant for,’ Cetine said, resting her chin thoughtfully in her hand. ‘Was she travelling north or south?’

‘South.’

‘Personal funds for Erryan, maybe?’ Heron suggested. ‘Perhaps he’s going on a diplomatic visit?’

‘Or employing more troops,’ Tyr said darkly.

Flynt considered the easy way that Erryan had thrown him a bag of rubies, and doubted that the king was short of funds.

_It must have to be opals in particular,_ he thought.

‘There are no opals in Fornale,’ he said, drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

‘Aren’t there?’ Min said. ‘I’ll take your word for it, but why does that matter?’

‘Just a thought, but I don’t think he’s particularly poor at present, so perhaps it’s not gems in general he needs. It’s opals in particular,’ Flynt explained slowly, feeling out his idea as if he were poking at a loose tooth. ‘Rich as it is, Fornale doesn’t naturally produce opals, but it does produce a particular type of sturdy yellow stone which is used in the castle in Ciquade.’

‘So he’s looking to trade? That’s a lot of gems. Is he building another bloody castle?’ Val asked.

‘The wall of the castle barracks is collapsing,’ Flynt said, and watched with amusement as Val perked up, looking intrigued by the possible advantage. ‘It probably wouldn’t take much stone to repair, but he can’t get any of the right stone at all. Apparently the Ash Queen is furious about something Erryan said or did some time ago, and has refused to allow anyone to trade it to him. A sack of opals would be a very impressive apology.’

‘How do you know about that?’ Min asked, wide eyed.

‘I spoke to someone from the castle,’ Flynt said, deciding on the spot to say nothing about Quiline to anyone except the Lanosos. If everything went wrong, the fewer people who knew about her, the better. ‘Trust me, it’s true.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Cetine agreed. ‘And it’s possible you’re right.’

‘There’s no such flaw in the outer wall, is there?’ Val asked hopefully.

Flynt chuckled. ‘Not that I know of, sorry.’

Val pouted. ‘If only I were so lucky! Well, it might not be immediately useful, but it’s interesting to know.’

‘If nothing else we know that Erryan will allow the castle to fall into disrepair rather than apologise. Apparently that wall’s been warping for a while,’ Flynt said.

‘I think what’s more important than what he intended the gems for is what he’s going to do now we have them,’ Tyr said. ‘I can’t imagine he’ll be happy.’

Flynt considered Erryan’s reaction to such a large theft and shuddered involuntarily.

‘Does he know it was us?’ Cetine asked, shooting Flynt a sympathetic look.

‘Not yet. This was only a few days ago, so I doubt the messenger’s made it back to Ciquade.’

‘But she is alive? And whoever robbed her gave the usual speech?’

‘Yes, and yes,’ Heron confirmed. ‘They said they laid it on extra thick when they found his seal hidden in her bags and discovered that she was travelling on royal business. They didn’t realise at first how much they’d stolen.’

Flynt was honestly surprised that they had let one of Erryan’s own servants live, but he was strangely pleased to hear it. If such a dangerous woman was let go, it seemed that the Lanosos really were avoiding violence in their work, even when it put them in greater danger.

‘Alright, so give her perhaps two weeks to get back,’ Cetine mused. ‘Then he’ll learn that we took his gems, ruining whatever plan he had for them. If they were meant to pay more troops, all the better for us, because when he comes after us he’ll have fewer soldiers.’

‘You also think that he’ll come after us now?’ Val asked her.

Cetine nodded. ‘I’d say so. This is bigger than travellers and merchants losing their purses. It might finally force his hand. Flynt, what do you think he’ll do?’

Flynt didn’t care to imagine it, but he forced himself to try.

‘He’ll be furious. I don’t envy anyone in the room when he finds out, their odds of survival aren’t good. As for a response; he isn’t always rational, so we could see anything from an organised and methodical sweep north to an all-out firestorm.’

‘He won’t try and burn the forest,’ Tyr scoffed.

Flynt stared at him, trying to convey with his eyes alone the horrors Erryan could commit. 

‘Yes, he will,’ Flynt said. ‘But you should be more afraid of him coming out here himself.’

Val and Cetine exchanged a hunted look, clearly imagining the disaster that would ensue if Erryan decided to unleash his flair among their allies.

‘What do we do?’ Min asked, sounding suddenly unsure. ‘Lares, they should have killed her.’

‘It wouldn’t have mattered,’ Cetine said. ‘The moment they stopped her, it was too late. Even if they’d let her keep the gems, word would have got to Erryan that she was stopped by bandits in Fray’s green. If they’d killed her, her disappearance would have been investigated. Her cargo was too valuable to be disregarded. At least this way, we have the gems and a clearer conscience.’

Flynt nodded, impressed by Cetine’s insight. ‘You have two advantages. First, he doesn’t know for sure who is leading the bandits, so he doesn’t have the burning desire to wipe you out just yet. And second, he doesn’t know where you are, or how many. If he sends soldiers, they really will be walking in blindly.’

‘Unless he gets some more information in the meantime,’ Val said, looking intensely at Flynt.

Flynt shrugged, trying not to let Val’s gaze unnerve him. It was more a suggestion than an accusation.

‘If his messenger is already south of here, there’s no way I could get back faster.’

‘She’s got no horse anymore, they took that too,’ Min said, looking between Val and Flynt with great interest, wondering what deeper debate was going on.

‘So maybe you could beat her back to the city,’ Val said.

‘Perhaps. Would it help?’ Flynt asked.

Val stared at him a moment longer, green eyes narrowed, then sighed and leaned back.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Flynt shook his head slowly. ‘I only wish I knew. Erryan is nothing if not unpredictable, and I can’t say what he’ll do about this at all.’

‘It might be better for you to stay a little longer and lay plans with us than for you to rush off on a chance,’ Cetine said.

‘Perhaps. And who even knows if Talon is prepared to let me go,’ Flynt pointed out. ‘Unless I somehow become invisible to your father, it’s not up to me when I leave.’

‘That’s true,’ Val said with a laugh, breaking the tense mood.

All three of them relaxed a little, and became immediately aware of the strange way the other trio was looking at them.

‘There’s something big happening, isn’t there?’ Heron said. ‘Even bigger than this theft.’

‘And whoever Flynt Coal is, he’s up to his neck in it,’ Min agreed.

Flynt chuckled. ‘That’s all too true,’ he said ruefully.

Cetine hummed. ‘We might finally have a way to move on the city, but there are still things we need to sort out,’ she told them. ‘I promise, when there’s something certain to know, you’ll know it.’

‘In the meantime, Flynt is our guest, and that’s all,’ Val said. ‘And we really did come to drink and play games, as well as get your news.’

‘You really want to just leave this alone?’ Tyr asked incredulously.

‘What else should we do?’ Val asked. ‘We could chase down the messenger and kill her, but that’ll only complicate matters later. Until she reaches the city and Erryan reacts, we are just waiting.’

Tyr scowled for a moment, thinking it over, and then grunted.

‘I don’t like it, but I suppose we are. Lares, I need a stronger drink.’

Cetine laughed. ‘I don’t blame you. I think we all do, and it just so happens that Val lost a boat race this morning and he owes us.’

‘I owe you supper, not drinks, and I don’t owe the others anything!’ Val squawked at once, puffing up in outrage.

‘Aw, you won’t even buy us a drink, Val? After all we’ve done for you?’ Min said, pouting forlornly.

Val muttered something about being horribly tricked by horrible people, scrubbing a hand over his face while Cetine grinned at him.

‘Alright, fine!’ he said. ‘I’m buying, but then we’re going to play Crown, and whoever loses can get the next round.’

Val stalked off to the bar, his bristling posture leaving the others laughing in his wake.


End file.
